Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Gojo Satoru knew what it was like to be adored. Gojo Satoru knew he is the golden boy of the university—top of the class, adored by professors, and effortlessly charismatic. Everyone wants to be near him or be him. He wears sunglasses indoors and somehow pulls it off. 

“Your sunglasses are ridiculous,” Shoko had told him once, flicking the rim as she sipped her coffee. “It’s 8AM. Indoors.”

“Yeah, but I look hot,” he’d grinned, and she hadn’t disagreed.

He’d grown up being told he was special—gifted, chosen, brilliant. And maybe it was true. He breezed through exams, turned heads without trying, and laughed like someone who’d never touched pain. The world wanted a piece of him— even strangers on the internet. But most of the time, it felt like they only loved the idea of him.

He had friends—real ones. Shoko. Nanami. Yuuji. Megumi sometimes, when he wasn’t pretending to hate him. He even got along with Maki and Nobara. But there was always space inside Satoru that no one could quite fill. A shape that used to belong to someone, now long gone. He didn’t talk about him. Not really. The only thing he kept was an old photo strip in his wallet, edges curling. He never looked at it. He just liked knowing it was there. His friends never talk about it either.

Sometimes, its better not to talk about someone you dont want anything to do with. Sometimes, its easier to walk away because staying would hurt more. Because Satoru knew what it meant to be left behind. And now he just wants to be the one who left.

And these years, his life was neat. Clean. Bright. Majoring in business, heir to the Gojo fortune, top of every class, invited to every party. He joked, he smiled, he kept it light.

And there was Yuuji.

Itadori Yuuji was a lot like Satoru in the way people noticed first—bubbly, warm, full of a reckless kind of joy. But where Gojo was sharp-edged and untouchable, Yuuji let people in. He wanted to be known. It was what made Satoru like him instantly.

"You're like a golden retriever," Satoru had said the first time they met 3 years ago.

"And you're like a blind guy who walked into traffic," Yuuji grinned. "Because who wears sunglasses at night?"

They’d been friends ever since. And Satoru Gojo had known that the first time they met—Yuuji smiled like sunlight, spoke like laughter, and listened like the world hadn’t broken him yet. He was sincere to the point of pain. He was the kind of person who made other people want to be good, even if they didn’t know how. It made sense that they were friends.

Three years into their friendship, they shared many things. However, just as Satoru didn't share his past, neither did Yuuji.

And Satoru just didn't know that there can be anyone in this world who doesn't like Itadori Yuuji.

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There was something sacred about this place.

Old jazz playing in the background, low warm lights dangling above mismatched tables, the espresso machine humming beside the bar, and the soft clink of glasses in the distance. It was nothing like the college lounges or the campus cafeteria — this café-bar was their spot, at the corner where the big and cozy bar sofa was set. Every Thursday night without fail. Every birthday, every after-midterm breakdown, every slow Sunday that needed saving.

Tonight, it was Yuuji’s birthday.

And Gojo Satoru, as always, was fashionably late — but dazzling enough to get away with it.

“Satoru!” Yuuji’s voice carried across the place the moment he walked in. Yuuji was beaming.

"Damn! You're glowing! Birthday boy privilege?" Satoru said as he draped an arm across his shoulders.

“I’m twenty two, Satoru. Not twelve." Yuuji grinned, shoving a cup into his hand. “You better be drunk and compliment me in thirty minutes.”

The party wasn’t big, but everyone important was there—Nobara, already half-drunk and trying to arm-wrestle Panda which ignore her and busy with his foods; Megumi, sitting cross-legged next to Yuuji and very pointedly ignoring everyone but Yuuji; Maki and Yuta arguing over karaoke settings; Shoko sprawled on the couch with a cigarette she absolutely wasn’t supposed to have indoors.

“You’re late,” Nobara chimed in, swirling her glass after her failed attempt arm-wrestling panda. “We already did the first toast.”

“There’s always room for a second,” Megumi said from his spot on the couch, surrounded by half-empty beers and Yuuji's arms.

It was warm here. Loud in the way comfort could be. Satoru belonged. It felt like family, in a weird way.

They chatted about everything and nothing, about drinking straight espresso martinis that made Megumi roll his eyes.

But somewhere in between the laughter and Maki daring Yuta to drink something that definitely wasn’t allowed inside the building, the conversation turned — the way it always does when someone touches a bruise too hard.

“So,” Nobara said, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. “Still no message from him, huh?”

Yuuji’s smile faltered for half a second. “Nope.”

“Him who?” Gojo asked, brows lifting.

“Sukuna” Megumi answered, voice soft. He frowned, knows where this is going to be and he doesn't like it. Anything that hurts Yuuji, he hates it.

Gojo blinked. "Sukuna who?"

"Yuuji's twin brother. Art major, pink hair, always looks like he wants to start a fight with the air. Looks exactly like Yuuji but with tatoos." Yuuta answered.

“What the—how did I not know this? We've been friends for three years! Thirty six months! I'm kind of hurt." Gojo reeled back.

“He hates me,” Yuuji muttered. “We don't even talk anymore since he moved out, seven years ago.” Yuuji picking at the label on his beer bottle like it had done something to him.

Shoko put out her cigarette and adjusted her seat, she said "Tell us about it. He sounds like a trouble you shouldn't keep to yourself".

The air went still. Megumi looked tense. Even Nobara stopped chewing. And everyone else was so confused because it seemed like it was just the three of them who knew about this Sukuna.

Yuuji set his drink down, his smile faltering for the first time all night. “Sukuna moved out seven years ago,” he said quietly. “After a huge fight with our parents. He just... left. Packed his stuff, slammed the door, and that was it. We haven’t talked since. Not even once.” His voice was calm, but it thinned around the edges. “I tried, you know? I really tried. I asked Ijichi to find out where he went, tried to get his number. When I finally got it last year and texted him, he never replied.” He let out a short breath, laughing bitterly. “He didn’t even come to our parents’ funeral. Or Grandpa’s. And then — just last week — I saw him. Right outside the university gates. First time in seven years. He looked right at me… and walked past. Like he didn’t even know who I was. Tried to text him again but again i didn't get a reply back”

Satoru felt something twist in his chest. He looked around the table — saw Yuuji tried to smile through it, the tension in Megumi’s jaw, Nobara clenching her drink too tight.

They knew each other since they were in elementary school, just like how Satoru and Shoko knew each other.

“You know,” Shoko murmured, exhaling smoke out the back window, “I’ve seen him around campus. Now I know why he kind of reminds me of you, Yuuji. And tonight I found out he is actually your twin brother." Shoko tried to laugh but failed. 

She continued, "I don't know if you knew about this but I heard someone said he is new, that means he is a freshman. Utahime told me that guy is new at the club and super talented. Always sketching something dark tho. Never talk. Smokes too much.”

Yuuji listened to Shoko like an old man tried to focus on the news on tv.

"And sorry I kept it from you, I just didn't want to push. And now you decide to tell us about this so I think you deserve to know how he's doing." Shoko finished his story about Sukuna with a ship of her martini.

"Thanks, Shoko." Yuuji tried to keep his voice steady, not tremble like a little child.

“He’s in my art class too, saw him two days ago” Megumi said, still looking down at his untouched drink. “He doesn’t talk. But he shows up. Submits beautiful work. He doesn’t… connect.”

There was something unreadable in his voice. Not quite admiration. Not quite a pity. Gojo caught it. His eyes narrowed. Yuuji tried to comfort Megumi, even though he himself needed comfort. Yuuji held Megumi's hands and smiled like he understood what Megumi felt.

“Maybe he has reasons,” Yuta offered gently.

“Maybe he’s just a dick,” Maki shot back.

“He didn’t even show up to your parents’ funeral,” Maki muttered again from the corner, arms crossed. “Or your grandfather’s. What kind of person does that?”

“Maybe he was grieving,” Panda offered, though it sounded like he didn't even believe it.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Nobara snapped. “You’d give him the whole world, and he can’t even give you a text back.”

Satoru watched all of this quietly, his usual smirk faded.

He’d seen broken families before. Rich ones. Cold ones. Kids with too much money and not enough love. But this felt different. This wasn’t neglect—it was rejection. A choice.

And suddenly, he hated Sukuna.

He didn't know Sukuna but he hated the idea of him.

“It’s okay,” Yuuji said quietly. “He just doesn’t want to be part of my life anymore. That’s fine.” Now it's Megumi who tried to comfort his boyfriend, holding Yuuji's hands like a lifeline. Like if they don't hold each other they will be shattered.

Gojo wanted to say it wasn’t fine. That no one with a heart could walk past their twin like a stranger. That even broken people should at least try. But something in it clung to him. Not the details, exactly, but the shape of it. The way Sukuna left without explanation, without goodbye, without looking back — it wasn’t unfamiliar. It reminded him of someone from his past. Of the slow, unbearable distance that grew between two people who once knew each other like the backs of their hands. Of walking away because staying would hurt more.

The silence that followed that night was the kind that didn’t know how to comfort.

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Chapter Text

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To Megumi there were always two Yuuji Itadoris.

One with the sun in his smile, warmth in his hands, laughter echoing off school hallways—Megumi’s best friend, and boyfriend. The other, carved in shadows, eyes that never softened even when he was smiling—Ryoumen Sukuna.

Sukuna wasn’t cruel, but he wasn’t kind either. He wasn’t like Yuuji, who gave affection like it was his nature. Sukuna’s love—if that’s what it was—came sharp-edged. Conditional. Cautious. He rarely spoke unless it mattered, but when he did, Megumi always listened.

Back then, Megumi hadn’t known what to call the way Sukuna looked at him. The gaze that lingered too long during classes, the way his fingers sometimes brushed Megumi’s wrist when passing a pencil, how his presence always felt like a string pulled taut—waiting for Megumi to pull back.

He’d known.

He just didn’t say anything.

Because if he said something, Yuuji would know.

And that would ruin everything.

He remembered the day it shifted. Late summer, seven years ago, the air was sticky with heat. Megumi had stayed late at the Itadori household. Yuuji had fallen asleep early—tired from soccer practice, sprawled across the floor in front of the TV like a lazy cat.

Sukuna had been in the kitchen, smoking by the window even though Ijichi told him not to. Megumi didn’t know when it started. But Sukuna had been smoking lately, a lot.

Megumi had gone in to grab a glass of water, barefoot on the marble tiles, and paused when he caught Sukuna staring.

No smirk. No raised brow. Just raw, aching silence.

“Can’t sleep?” Sukuna had asked, low and flat.

Megumi shrugged. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

That silence again. Too heavy. Too real.

Then Sukuna asked, “Why him?”

Megumi’s breath had hitched, but he didn’t ask what Sukuna meant. Because he already knew.

He hadn’t answered. He’d just left the room, heart pounding, guilt clenching his ribs like a vice.

It was the last time Sukuna spoke to him one-on-one.

Months later, he was gone.

He remembered it vividly. The screaming from the main hall of the house. The sound of doors slamming. Megumi had been staying over that night. He had crept down the hallway and found Sukuna with a bag slung over his shoulder, eyes red, face bruised, fists clenched.

Sukuna didn’t even look at him. Just stared past him, jaw tight.

Megumi never told Yuuji. Not about that moment. Not about Sukuna’s feelings, not about the way Sukuna looked like he was trying to hold himself together with teeth and spit.

How could he? Sukuna’s feelings weren’t his secret to tell. And maybe, on some selfish level, Megumi had hoped it would just fade.

Yuuji had cried when he knew Sukuna had left. Screamed. Begged their parents to call him. Asked Megumi over and over if he thought Sukuna would come back.

 And Megumi—who still felt the weight of that unanswered question lodged in his chest—could only hold him and lie.

“I don’t know,” he’d whispered. “I hope so.”

But he did know.

Sukuna left because the house was suffocating him. Their parents' voices, sharp and cold behind closed doors. The abuse, the expectations, the wealth, the polished image they demanded at every dinner table.

And he’d left because of Megumi. Because Megumi had chosen Yuuji. It's easier to think that way. Because blaming ourselves is also easier than taking action to address someone else's wrongdoing.

Megumi held Yuuji the entire time. And in the days that followed, Megumi became the quiet constant Yuuji needed. He never mentioned Sukuna. Never said he understood why he left. Because he did. And that guilt sat in Megumi’s chest like a stone.

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Yuuji lay motionless in his king-sized bed, the silk sheets tangled around his legs. He stared at the ceiling, unmoving, letting the silence press into his chest.

His eyes burned from lack of sleep. Not from nightmares—but from reality.

Last week kept replaying.

Sukuna walked past him. The absence of recognition. The deliberate, casual cruelty of it.

It had been seven years, but the ache felt raw and fresh again. His twin—his other half—had looked right through him. No nod, no sneer, no flicker of anything that said.

Yuuji rolled to his side, burying his face in the pillow, muffling the sound of his frustration. He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or run out the door and bang on every dorm room until he found Sukuna and demanded—Why?

But he didn’t.

Instead, he dragged himself out of bed and padded across the cool marble floor, the quietness of the mansion unnerving. Most people wouldn’t call it a mansion, maybe just a ‘large house,’ but that was only if you didn’t live in it. To Yuuji, it felt like a hollow palace.

He found Ijichi in the kitchen, like always.

Ijichi didn’t flinch when he saw him. He only poured tea into a cup, placed it gently on the counter, and said, “You didn’t sleep.”

Yuuji offered a weak smile.

Ijichi hesitated for a second, like he wanted to say something more, but decided against it. Yuuji appreciated that. Ijichi never pried, never judged. He had been there since Yuuji was born—changing his diapers, tucking him in at night when his parents were away, standing by quietly during every argument.

And he’d been there too when Sukuna left.

“Do you…” Yuuji trailed off, then finally looked at him. “Do you think it’s my fault?”

Ijichi sighed. “Yuuji, you were just a child. Whatever happened—it wasn’t on you.”

But Yuuji wasn’t convinced.

Because Sukuna had left.

And if Yuuji had been enough, wouldn’t he have stayed?

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Chouso showed up mid-morning, looking annoyed and rumpled. His long hair was pulled into a lazy bun, and he dropped his backpack unceremoniously at the door like he owned the place.

“You didn’t answer your texts,” he said by way of greeting.

Yuuji rubbed his face. “Didn’t see them.”

Chouso studied him for a long moment. “Nobara told me what happened.”

Yuuji gave him a blank stare. “You weren’t even there.”

Chouso shrugged, arms crossed. “Nobara was. And she never shuts up. Besides, she’s pissed. She wanted to find Sukuna and drag him by the hair.” Yuuji cracked a smile despite himself.

Chouso didn’t live with them—he was their cousin on their mother’s side—but ever since he moved nearby for grad school, he’d been a near-constant presence in Yuuji’s life. Protective to a fault, always gruff and angry at everything, but loyal. Yuuji had told him about Sukuna years ago, and Chouso hadn’t forgotten.

“He looks tired, like he hasn't slept for the entire seven years.” Yuuji muttered, remembering the dark circles under Sukuna’s eyes, the pallor of his skin. The tattoos.

Chouso raised a brow. “And you care?”

“Yes,” Yuuji snapped, then softer, “Of course I do.”

Chouso didn’t say anything, but Yuuji could tell he was thinking then why doesn’t he care back?

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Yuuji spent most of the day pacing. Megumi came over late in the afternoon, bringing leftover pastries and a quiet, steady presence. They didn’t talk about Sukuna—not at first. Megumi just sat on the couch next to Yuuji's bed, scrolling on his phone while Yuuji pretended to be busy organizing books that didn’t need organizing.

Finally, Megumi said, “Are you okay?”

There was a pause, and then Yuuji came over, sat down next to him, their shoulders brushing. He leaned in, resting his head on Megumi’s shoulder. “He used to play soccer with me when we were little,” he whispered. “He told me he hated it, I knew, but he always did it when I asked.”

Megumi reached for his hand.

“I miss him,” Yuuji said. “Even when I tell myself I shouldn’t.”

“It's okay to miss him, Yuuji.”

Yuuji nodded, breathing in the familiar scent of Megumi’s shampoo. “I just want to know why. Why did he leave? Why didn't he come back? Why he didn’t even look at me.”

Megumi squeezed his hand.

Yuuji continued, "I knew what Mom and Dad did to him was wrong, but was I not enough to make him stay, Meg? If the situation were reversed, I would stay."

Yuuji wanted closure. He wanted answers. But more than anything, he wanted to go back to the days when they were still kids, when Sukuna still held his hand crossing the street, when they still wore matching pajamas.

But that felt like a lifetime ago.

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Yuuji knew it was selfish, but sometimes Yuuji wished he could just go back in time — back to when he and Sukuna were still kids, sharing a house too big for two, too quiet for siblings. Sukuna used to complain about it — about how their parents gave them everything except love — but Yuuji remembered the laughter. The midnight snacks. Sukuna reading manga out loud with terrible voices just to make him laugh. Those memories felt like a dream now. Too perfect, too distant.

It had taken him years to realize how unfair it had been for Sukuna.

 Yuuji knew he was the golden child, the good one. Quiet, obedient, cheerful. Sukuna, on the other hand — wild, sharp, moody. It wasn’t that Sukuna was cruel. He just didn’t know how to play the part their parents demanded. And somewhere along the line, everyone stopped trying to understand him.

Except Yuuji. 

He tried. He always tried. 

But he wasn’t enough.

The thought gnawed at his chest as he paced the hallway outside his room. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sukuna’s back walking away.

Again.

Late that night, he sat in his room, pulling out the one box he never unpacked. Inside were old photos. A few baby clothes. A single crumpled drawing—a monster with three heads and a label: “Drawn by Suku-nii.”

Chouso had already gone home, leaving after a silent hug and whispered "Call me if you do anything stupid." And Megumi had fallen asleep in his bed, probably exhausted from everything. Ijichi had been kind enough to bring him warm milk like he used to do when Yuuji was little — like nothing had changed, even though everything had.

He stared at the photo of the two of them in the park—tiny, identical, grinning at the camera. It was one of the few pictures they had together. Even as babies, their parents kept them apart more often than not. One took Sukuna to family gatherings; the other kept Yuuji at home. They said it was for balance, that they didn’t want them to be too reliant on each other.

But Yuuji always knew it was a lie.

They just didn’t want two sons. They wanted one of each. Sukuna had taken their mother’s name—Ryoumen. Yuuji had taken their father’s.

He remembered the moment they were told they’d take different last names. It was explained like a business deal — something about inheritance, legacy, tradition. Their mother’s family was powerful. Their father’s side was older, traditional. Twins would confuse the lines. So they split them — Sukuna taking their mother’s name. Yuuji, their father’s.

Even as toddlers, they were raised like separate heirs.

Different rooms. Different nannies. Different schedules.

That was how it had always been: separated by names, by bedrooms, by expectations.

And then one day, Sukuna decided he was done.

He left.

Yuuji didn’t even get a goodbye.

But now that he was here—back, even if distant—Yuuji wouldn’t let him disappear again.

Yuuji didn’t believe in giving up on people. Especially not his brother.

He would try. He didn’t care how many times Sukuna ignored him.

He’d talk to him. Or at least try. Even if Sukuna didn’t answer. Even if he walked away again.

Because he had to believe there was still something left.

This time, he was going to fight for his brother.

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Chapter Text

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Satoru Gojo woke up face-down, limbs tangled in too many blankets and not enough sleep. His apartment was a modern mess — sleek black walls, sunlight leaking through a half-open curtain.

He groaned, rolled over, and blinked at the ceiling.

Last night came back in flashes.

Yuuji’s hollow voice. The tension at the table. The name — Sukuna — slicing through the air like a secret too heavy for words.

Twin brother. Estranged. Didn’t even come to the funeral. Walked past like he didn’t know him.

Satoru sat up, rubbed his face, and dropped his head back against the headboard with a dull thud.

“Why the hell is this bothering me,” he muttered. He didn’t even know Sukuna. But somehow, it clung to him. Like the ghost of something unfinished.

A knock rattled at his door.

“I’m not dead!” Satoru called out. “Just emotionally hungover!”

The door creaked open anyway. Yuuta leaned in, dressed like someone who definitely didn’t just roll out of bed.

“Just checking,” he said, smiling faintly. “You missed your 9 a.m. alarm.”

“I’m emotionally processing.”

Yuuta raised a brow. “You’re just avoiding class.”

“Same thing.”

Satoru finally sat up properly, running a hand through his white hair. “You heading out?”

“Thought I’d wait for you. We’ve got that joint history lecture with Nanami at 10.”

Satoru blinked. “Shit. I forgot.”

Yuuta laughed under his breath and tossed him a clean shirt from the back of a chair. "Hurry up and take a shower, I don't want to be late. The others are waiting at the usual place."

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The morning light spread like soft silk across the pavement, the warmth muted by a quiet, lingering chill. Satoru walked beside Yuta in silence, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable—just thick, like a curtain they hadn't yet drawn open. Campus wasn’t far, and neither of them were in a rush. Their footsteps found a rhythm of their own, matching pace over old cracks in the sidewalk and forgotten leaves.

Satoru tilted his head up, sunglasses on despite the clouded sky. He could feel Yuta glancing at him once in a while, saying nothing. That was how it had always been between them. Yuta didn’t press. He waited. Satoru wasn’t sure if that made things easier or worse.

“You’ve been quiet,” Yuta said, finally.

Satoru smirked. “I’m always quiet when I’m thinking.”

Yuta didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They turned the corner near the bookstore, a shortcut they’d taken since first year.

It had only been two days since Yuuji’s birthday. Two days since that name—Sukuna—was dropped like a stone into their group. Satoru still didn't know why this bothered him so much.

Maybe Satoru hated that he hadn’t known. A whole three years he’d been close with Yuuji—best friends, even. He made fun of him, protected him, made him laugh. They shared food, stress, grades. But not this. Yuuji hadn’t told him a thing about having a twin. The mean one.

He kicked a loose pebble off the sidewalk.

Yuta, as if hearing the shift in his thoughts, murmured, “You’re mad at Yuuji?”

Satoru shrugged. “I’m not.” Then, after a beat: “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Yuta exhaled a small breath that was almost a laugh.

“I get it,” he said. “I didn’t know either. Until last week.”

That got Satoru’s attention. He glanced over, brows lifting behind his sunglasses. “Yeah?” 

Yuta nodded, eyes fixed ahead.

“I was with Yuuji,” he said. “We were heading to our class. And Sukuna passed by. He didn’t even glance our way, but Yuuji suddenly froze.”

Yuta explained, “He had this dead-cold stare and a scar under his eyes. Looked like Yuuji, pink hair, a bit shorter than Yuuji, frowning so hard, and has lot of tattoos. And I'm not that idiot not to connect the dots.”

Satoru kicked his heel against the concrete rhythmically. He imagined it. Two versions of the same boy—one warm, bright, easy to love. The other a shadow of the first, carved in colder stone.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. 

“Guess I get it though,” Satoru added, looking up at the overcast sky. “I haven’t exactly told him everything about me either.”

That name hung in the silence, unspoken. Yuta looked at Satoru for a long moment, then away again. It hung between them—the knowledge of the boy Satoru had once loved like a sun, and lost like a storm. Geto Suguru, the hole in his ribs he’d stitched over with laughter and bravado. The reason he didn’t judge Yuuji for hiding pain in plain sight.

Satoru tugged on the strap of his bag. “I mean, I’m Yuuji’s best friend, right? And somehow I didn’t even know the most important thing about him. Feels kind of shitty.” Satoru’s voice dropped, soft but clear.

Yuta gave a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It would.”

“Or he probably thought he was protecting something,” Yuta continued. “Or someone.”

Satoru scoffed. “From me?”

Yuta smiled faintly. “You don’t exactly make it easy for people to share.”

“That’s slander.”

“It’s true. I won't forget last summer how you were so possessive over me just because someone gave me a love letter.” 

''Oh come on! You still don't think what Rika did is creepy? and I already said sorry okay? didn't know Rika is actually such a sweetheart.'' Satoru huffed out a half-laugh, and the tension in his shoulders unwound a little. Just a little.

Yuuta didn't say anything back, but he smiled. Happy he could lighten the atmosphere a little bit.

They were almost there now. The familiar curve of the main walkway opened ahead, where the bench sat under the wide trees. He could already see Megumi’s dark head bowed over his phone. Yuuji and Nobara weren’t far off, talking low.

-----------------

The air was soft this morning—blue sky peeking through faint cloud cover, sunlight filtering through the wide trees that lined the bench just outside the business hall. This was their usual meeting spot before class, a place worn into habit by shared coffees and waiting laughs.

Yuuji sat at the end of the bench, his legs slightly apart, palms flat against the wood beside him. His bag sat untouched by his feet. He’d been staring straight ahead for a while now, watching people come and go but seeing none of them.

Next to him, Megumi was quiet—head lowered, phone in hand, though he hadn’t typed anything for the past five minutes.

Nobara sat on the opposite end, elbow propped on the back of the bench, chewing on the end of a straw from her smoothie.

She’d said nothing since they sat down.

Yuuji knew why.

“Hey,” Nobara finally murmured, eyes still on the sky. “About your birthday...”

Yuuji blinked, but didn’t move. “Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned slightly, brows knitting.

She didn’t look at him. “For bringing him up. For saying his name in front of everyone. I wasn’t trying to—” She stopped, jaw tightening. “I didn’t mean to turn the whole thing into some sad mystery reveal.”

Megumi shifted slightly beside Yuuji, like he wanted to intervene but didn’t know how.

Yuuji was quiet for a long moment. He picked at the edge of the bench with one thumb. The wood flaked under his nail.

“It’s not your fault,” he said finally, voice soft. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

Nobara looked at him now, her eyes lined with concern and a guilt she didn’t often wear.

“I should’ve told the other guys a long time ago,” Yuuji added.

“No,” Megumi said, surprising them both. His voice was low, steady. “You didn’t owe us that.”

“But—”

“You didn’t,” Megumi repeated. Stubborn.

Yuuji looked at him, then dropped his gaze. No one said anything for a long while.

Yuuji swallowed hard. “He didn’t even come to the funeral.”

“I thought maybe he hated our parents,” Yuuji went on, voice smaller now. “And now i think he hates me too.”

His words trailed off.

The breeze picked up. A leaf skittered across the pavement, the sound crisp and hollow.

Nobara reached out and gently nudged his shoulder with her own. “You’re allowed to miss him and hate him at the same time, you know.”

Yuuji smiled at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

The moment passed between them like light through water—subtle, healing in its own quiet way.

Before any of them could say more, they heard approaching footsteps. Loud. Familiar.

“Here we go,” Megumi muttered.

Satoru’s voice rang out before he came into view, “Hope you guys didn’t start trauma-dumping without me!”

Nobara rolled her eyes and stood, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. “Just in time for the group therapy circle.”

Yuta followed behind Satoru, more muted as usual, giving Yuuji a small smile. Yuuji returned it with a flicker of gratitude, then looked up when a moment later Shoko came trailing after them, coffee in hand.

Nanami showed up moments later, buttoned up and perpetually irritated, dropping his bag with a sigh.

“You missed the chaos last night,” Satoru teased.

Nanami didn’t even blink. “I was on a date.”

That earned raised brows around the circle.

“With Haibara?” Yuuji asked, blinking.

Nanami adjusted his glasses. “Yes. We’ve been together for two weeks now.”

Nobara gave a low whistle. “You kept that quiet.”

“It’s called privacy.”

Nobara leaned toward Yuuji. “Haibara’s a saint. He’s too good for Nanami.”

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to.”

While they bantered, Yuuji sat tucked against Megumi, their thighs pressed together. Megumi had one arm casually slung behind him on the bench, pinky hooked over Yuuji’s sleeve. It was the kind of intimacy that didn’t beg attention — quiet, solid, real. Satoru was about to offer another dumb joke when the air shifted.

Yuuji turned first. Then Megumi. 

And then they all saw him.

Sukuna.

Walking across the far end of the courtyard, hands shoved in his pockets, cigarette dangling from his lips. His red sweater hung loose, inked skin peeking out beneath the sleeves. He looked pale, like sleep was a myth he hadn’t believed in for years. Dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight, strides fast — like he was trying to get somewhere without being seen.

He didn’t look their way. Not even once. Not at Yuuji. Especially not at Yuuji.

Yuuji went completely still. Beside him, Megumi’s hand found his without thinking.

And Satoru… couldn’t look away.

It hit him like a punch to the ribs — Sukuna was devastating. Beautifully devastating.

Not just attractive in a reckless, burned-out poet kind of way, but… magnetic. Angry. Beautiful and broken in the worst possible combination.

And for a moment — just one reckless moment — Satoru wondered what it would feel like to make a person like that look back.

“What a dick,” Nobara muttered under her breath.

But Satoru didn’t say anything.

He just watched Sukuna disappear around the corner, heart beating louder than it should.

No one had said much since Sukuna passed them two minutes ago. Students came and went, the low hum of campus life continuing around them, unaware of the way the world had momentarily shifted for those gathered by the benches. 

It was Shoko who spoke first, flipping through her planner while chewing on the end of a pen. “Anyone else realize club hours are counted toward extra credits again this semester?”

Nobara groaned, dropping her head back. “Don’t remind me. I already ignored, like, three recruitment emails.”

“I’m serious,” Shoko said, tapping her pen. “If we want to keep our GPA up, we need to do something—even a minimal club counts.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Wait, they’re giving more points for club activity now?”

Shoko shrugged. “Participation incentives. Some departments are using it as part of internal evaluations. They insist that we have to be active in at least one club”

Yuuta added, “It’s part of the ‘student engagement’ program they’re pushing. You don’t join something, your grade gets tanked.”

“Don’t worry,” Nanami waved them off. “We are all already joined a club at least. Megumi’s on Art. Yuta’s got his music and cultural club. Shoko in Med club. Panda, Yuuji and Maki in Sport Club. And Nobara i think you once said you joined Drama last semester?”

Nobara snorted at that. “Drama is boring, I plan to move to a fashion club.” And she was impressed that Nanami remembered all that.

“Nanami is right. We already have clubs,” Megumi muttered.

“Everyone does,” Shoko said, then pointed. “Except Gojo.”

''Really guys? I feel betrayed.'' Satoru pouted and made a gesture as if his heart was hit by an arrow. And everyone chuckled. 

“You’re not going to get away with that,” Shoko said. “Especially for your department. You’re in the red zone, Gojo.”

Yuuta interrupted, glancing at him. “You know the art club’s still open for new members.”

Satoru stiffened. “No.”

Everyone looked at him.

“I mean—” Satoru tried to play it off, waving his hand. “Isn’t there a better option? Art club’s boring.”

Megumi raised an eyebrow, offended. “Everything is boring to you.”

“I just think it’s not a great idea for Yuuji.” Satoru muttered.

“Why?” Shoko asked, eyes narrowing.

“Because Sukuna’s there,” Satoru snapped before he could stop himself.

The silence was immediate.

Yuuji exhaled and finally said, “I was already planning to join. I want to talk to him.”

Satoru’s mouth thinned.

Yuuji looked at Satoru and said carefully, “It's okay, Satoru. I will be fine.” Yuuji promised.

Satoru nodded, silent. And no one argued after that.

Nanami finally spoke, voice casual. “I thought it might be good. Besides, you’re good at drawing, right? We all saw those sketches in your notebook.”

“They’re just doodles,” Yuuji smiled.

Shoko’s gaze shifted to Satoru. “You still need a club.”

He yawned, exaggerated. “Still thinking." He continued, "Art suddenly sounds interesting tho, and there's Megumi and Yuuji too. I will protect my babies from the evil”

Yuuji smiled and Megumi rolled his eyes and Satoru winked at them. Already back to his playful energy.

“Exactly.” Yuuta smirked. Reminding everyone just how possessive Satoru can be.

--------------

They left the bench slowly. The warmth of the midday sun clung to them, softening the bite of the wind, and the sound of the others’ laughter faded behind them as Satoru and Yuuji walked side by side across campus.

It was quieter here, down the shaded path that led toward the east building where the art department held its domain—smelling faintly of charcoal and acrylic, quiet except for the hum of distant air conditioners and the dry shush of leaves.

Yuuji’s hands were in his pockets. His eyes stayed low, fixed on the cracks in the pavement. He walked with an edge of hesitation, and Satoru felt it—the way tension clung to him like static.

Satoru slipped his hands behind his head as they walked. He tilted his chin up, let the sun kiss his face, even if it didn’t reach the sharp coldness behind his eyes.

He was always like this when things scraped too close to bone. Lazy grin. Slouched shoulders. Loose limbs like he didn’t care. 

But he did. So much.

Yuuji finally broke the silence first, voice almost too soft to catch. “I'm sorry, I should’ve told you.”

Satoru blinked, lowering his head. “Huh?”

“About Sukuna.” Yuuji rubbed the back of his neck, like it physically pained him. “We’ve been friends for a long time. You’re probably wondering why I never mentioned him. I just… didn’t know how.”

Satoru looked at him sideways because Yuuji wasn’t meeting his eyes.

Yuuji kept talking anyway. “There wasn’t ever a good moment. It felt too late. And I was scared… that if I said it out loud, it would make it real. Like admitting he’s gone.”

Satoru exhaled through his nose. A long breath. He understood that. God, he understood it.

Because how long had he kept Geto buried under easy jokes and careless smiles? How many people had he let close without once naming the hollow place Geto left behind? God he feel like a a hypocrite since he also didn't tell Yuuji about Geto, not the detail one at least. And yet— Satoru glanced away. “You know I would've listened, right?”

Yuuji finally looked up. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “I know.”

Satoru kicked a pebble ahead of them. It skittered across the path and clinked softly into a storm drain. He could’ve said something. Something meaningful. But his throat locked around it.

So instead, he smirked. “Guess you just didn’t trust me,” he said, and nudged Yuuji’s shoulder with his own.

Yuuji jolted, startled. “No! That’s not—!”

“I’m kidding.” Satoru grinned, but his voice was gentle. “Sort of.”

Yuuji gave him a look. “That was mean.”

“Yeah, well.” Satoru shrugged. “You’re making me ditch my history class and walk into an art building. That’s crueler.”

Yuuji huffed a laugh. “I know you, Satoru. Don’t pretend like you don’t want to ditch history class and see what he’s like. My brother. If this works out, I will introduce him to you. Try to get along, please”

That gave Satoru a pause. “My brother” he said, well, brothers should’t leave each other like that. Not to mention the said brother is your twin. And no, he doesn’t think they will get along.

Satoru kept silent though.He didn’t want to admit that a part of him did want to see Sukuna—not because he liked him, but because he didn’t know what he was, and that made him dangerous. He didn’t want Yuuji near someone like that.

He didn’t want to watch someone hurts Yuuji like—

No.

He wouldn’t think about Geto. He wouldn't name the ache.

But he knew it was there, a low curling weight beneath his ribs.

Satoru's voice came light. “Just don’t cry if he throws a paintbrush at you.”

“I’ll throw it back.”

“Atta boy.” Satoru wrapped his arm around Yuuji's shoulders and laughed.

The art building loomed ahead—white-stone walls, paint-splattered door frames, wide windows letting in too much light. They let themselves slow at the entrance. Yuuji didn’t move for a moment. His hand hovered just above the door handle. He looked suddenly young. Nervous. Hopeful.

Satoru’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say something. Warn him. Pull him back.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached forward, opened the door for him.

 “After you, Romeo,” he said, with a lopsided grin.

Yuuji rolled his eyes but walked in. Satoru followed. Ready to pounce anyone who hurts his friends.

And he thinks Yuta was right. He’s possessive like that.

---------------

Chapter Text

----------------

The dull glow of the streetlamp outside his window was the only thing that pierced the perpetual twilight of Sukuna’s small flat. It was just past 7 PM, the city outside beginning its descent into the buzzing, chaotic night. The air inside his flat, however, remained still, heavy with the quiet solitude he had cultivated over the past year. A year since he’d escaped, a year since he’d tattooed the intricate, menacing marks across his skin, a perfect mask to live, a year since he’d truly broken free, a year since he’d started living for himself, or at least, trying to.

His apartment was less a home and more a temporary shelter, a strategic hideout. One bedroom, a cramped kitchen, a living room that doubled as an eating area, all of it barely enough space for a man and his shadow. Yet, for Sukuna, it was a palace compared to the gilded cage he’d fled. Every worn piece of furniture, every chipped mug, was a testament to his hard-won independence.

A soft purr rippled through the silence, and a sleek black shape wound itself around his ankles. Yoru . Means quiet and elegant. Also a subtle nod to his insomnia, nightmares, or his tendency to feel most alive when the world is asleep. A black cat, a stray he’d found shivering by a dumpster a few months ago, was the only other living soul in this carefully constructed quiet. Her emerald eyes, narrowed slits of contentment, followed his movements as he padded towards the kitchen.

“Hungry, huh?” he muttered, the words feeling foreign on his tongue, unused to conversation. Yoru responded with an insistent meow, rubbing her head against his leg. He poured a scoop of kibble into her bowl, the dry rattling sound echoing too loudly in the confined space. As she ate, a low, contented rumble vibrating from her small body, Sukuna found himself reaching down, his fingers tracing the soft fur along her spine. It was a simple, innocent touch, devoid of expectations or demands. Just a cat and her human, existing.

His own dinner was a quickly assembled instant noodle cup. He ate it standing at the counter, watching the city lights begin to speckle the darkening sky. The part-time delivery job started soon, and he needed fuel. It was a monotonous existence, a treadmill of minimal interactions and transient encounters. At night, he navigated the labyrinthine streets, a ghost among the living, delivering meals to anonymous faces. Sometimes, during the day, he filled in at the convenience store down the street, the cheerful "Welcome!" he forced out feeling like a betrayal of his true nature. But the rent needed paying, the bills needed settling, and the escape, fragile as it was, needed to be maintained.

A chill snaked up his spine, not from the evening air, but from a familiar dread beginning to coil in his gut. The sun had completely set now, casting long, shapeless shadows across the buildings opposite. The world outside, usually a source of detached amusement for him, was now a canvas of encroaching darkness. He flicked on every light in the flat, the sudden flood of artificial brightness doing little to entirely dispel the feeling.

His phobia of dark and small spaces was a constant, nagging undercurrent in his life. It wasn't just a dislike; it was a primal, visceral terror. The darkness wasn't empty; it was filled with whispering echoes, with the suffocating weight of unseen walls closing in. He didn't have to face a panic attack tonight, but the mere thought of being plunged into absolute blackness, confined and alone, was enough to send a cold sweat prickling at his skin. He pushed it down, as he always did, deep into a locked compartment of his mind. He couldn't afford to unravel. Not now. Not ever.

His mind, however, was a less obedient servant. As he changed into his delivery uniform, a worn jacket over a plain t-shirt, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the nights. The nightmares were a relentless torment, a twisted highlight reel of his past. He’d wake up, gasping, heart hammering against his ribs, in the same small flat, but the echoes of the dream would linger, clinging to the corners of the room like cobwebs.

Sometimes, he was drowning. Not in water, but in an abyss of pure, suffocating darkness, the pressure crushing his chest, the silence deafening. Other times, he was simply sitting, cross-legged, in a black void. But he wasn’t alone. Voices, sharp and cutting, would swirl around him. His parents. Their arguments, bitter and venomous, tearing at the fabric of his childhood. 

“Look at him, A Ryomen, just like your side of the family, always causing trouble!” His father’s shrill accusation, laced with venom for a bloodline he despised.

But it wasn’t just them. There were other voices, too, from his mother’s side of the family, a cold, calculating hum of judgment. “He’s not like Yuuji, is he? Such a shame.” The implication, always, was that he was a lesser version, a mistake, a burden. “Too wild, too… unpredictable. Yuuji is so much more agreeable.”

Then came the cold, clear pronouncement: "You are being sent away."

His mother, her face a mask of conflict, stood by silently. Her mad, absolute love for his father. She would do anything for him, even sacrifice her own son to maintain the fragile peace of their household.

He clenched his jaw, the memories burning, scalding hot. It had been six years since then. Six years of being forced to live with his mother’s family, after his parents had deemed him too difficult, too rebellious. They named him Ryomen, and expected him not to be a Ryomen through and through. Cruel. His parents were cruel like that. 

Sukuna wasn’t "moved out"; he was exiled, a burden they pawned off. He was a loose end, a stain on their carefully cultivated image. He remembered the sterile politeness of the servants who packed his bag, the impersonal journey to his mother’s family home. He was a parcel, delivered, discarded. He saw Megumi then, a brief, distant glimpse of his unrequited love, standing in front of his brother's room. He was defeated.

The notification from the delivery app buzzed on his phone, jolting him from his morbid reflections. A new order. Time to go. He grabbed his worn backpack, slipped his phone into a pocket, and took one last glance around the small, brightly lit flat. Yoru was curled up on the sofa, a tiny black comma of peace.

“Stay safe, little monster,” he murmured, the words barely audible. He slipped out, locking the door behind him, the click echoing in the sudden quiet of the hallway.

—------------------

The night air was cool, carrying the scent of exhaust fumes and damp earth. His motorcycle, an old but reliable beast, rumbled to life beneath him. He pulled out onto the street, merging with the flow of traffic, another anonymous figure in the city's endless hum. The rhythmic roar of the engine was a welcome distraction, a white noise that drowned out the whispers in his head.

Order after order, house after house, apartment after apartment. He moved with a practiced efficiency, his face a neutral mask, his voice a flat, clipped monotone when he had to speak. “Your order, sir.” “Thank you.” “Have a good night.” It was a transactional existence, exactly what he needed. No personal questions, no lingering gazes, no expectations.

Then came the last order of the night. The address was for a high-rise apartment building, one of the newer, more upscale ones that glittered like a jagged jewel against the night sky. He hated these kinds of places. Too many security doors, too many pristine hallways that felt like sterile, unwelcoming tunnels. He preferred the messy, chaotic streets where life felt more raw and honest.

He parked his bike, secured his helmet, and walked into the lobby, the bag of food slung over his shoulder. The lobby was minimalist, sleek, and utterly devoid of warmth. He found the right elevator and ascended, the silence of the ascent amplified by the soft hum of the machinery. His phone buzzed again, a text from the customer: "Leaving it outside the door for 2 mins, thanks." He nodded, a small, involuntary twitch. Efficient. He liked efficiency.

He reached the specified floor, the hallway lit by recessed lights that cast long, unsettling shadows. He located the apartment number. As he approached, the door swung open.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and impossibly striking, with an unkempt mop of white hair that seemed to defy gravity and eyes that were the color of the clearest sky, framed by dark spectacles. He was dressed in casual, comfortable clothes, but there was an aura about him, an almost playful confidence that grated on Sukuna’s nerves instantly. This wasn’t just some hungry salaryman. This man radiated… something. Something powerful and annoying.

“Delivery?” the man said, his voice light, almost amused.

Sukuna nodded, holding out the bag. “Yes. Your order.” He kept his gaze on the bag, on the crisp white paper, anywhere but the man's face. He just wanted to hand over the food, get his payment confirmed, and leave.

The man took the bag, his fingers brushing Sukuna’s briefly. A jolt, faint but unmistakable, passed between them. Sukuna recoiled inwardly. He hated being touched, hated the feeling of another person’s skin against his.

The man peered into the bag, then back at Sukuna, a curious smile playing on his lips. “Ah, perfect! Thanks, I was starving.” He paused, his bright eyes finally settling on Sukuna's face, lingering a moment too long. 

A flicker of recognition, or perhaps just curiosity, crossed his features. “Wait,” he began, his voice taking on a thoughtful, almost conversational tone, “Are you…Yuuji’s twin?”

The words hit Sukuna like a physical blow. The polite mask he wore, the one he used for work, shattered. Yuuji’s twin. The familiar, searing rage ignited in his chest, a cold fury that simmered just beneath his carefully constructed composure. It wasn’t the question itself, but the implication, the familiar, condescending judgment. It was the echo of his parents’ voices, their dismissive comparisons, the perpetual reminder that he was never enough, never himself, always just a reflection, a lesser version, a replacement for their beloved, perfect Yuuji.

He wanted to lash out, to snarl, to tell this irritatingly cheerful man to mind his own business. But the thought of his rent, of the fragile stability he’d built, acted as a cold splash of water. He needed this job. He needed to be invisible, unremarkable. No trouble.

He took a slow, deep breath, forcing the anger down, locking it away behind his teeth. His voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of any emotion. “Have a good night,” he said, his gaze fixed on a point just past the man’s shoulder. He turned abruptly, not waiting for a response, and walked away, his strides long and stiff.

He heard the man chuckle softly behind him, a sound that grated on his nerves like sandpaper. “You too, Yuuji’s twin!” the man called out, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Sukuna didn’t look back. He stabbed the elevator button, desperate to escape, to put as much distance as possible between himself and that man, that question, that infuriating, all-too-familiar reminder of who he was supposed to be. 

He was Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not Yuuji’s twin. Never just Yuuji’s twin. 

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing him in the sterile, confining box, the momentary relief of escape battling with the suffocating dread of the small space. He closed his eyes, the image of the white-haired man, etched into his mind, an unwelcome mark on his carefully cultivated solitude. He hated him. He truly, deeply hated him. And the night, once a canvas for his anonymity, now felt tainted.

—--------------

The ride home was a haze of controlled fury. He gripped the handlebars, knuckles white, leaning into turns with a reckless abandon that was both thrilling and terrifying. He needed the speed, the rush of wind, anything to drown out the internal monologue that had been triggered.

The man’s voice, so light, so utterly dismissive of his own existence, echoed his parents’ every scornful comparison. “Yuuji’s twin.” The words, so casually delivered, had stripped him bare, exposing the raw, unhealed wound of his past. They had always seen him through that lens. Never Sukuna.

He pulled up to his building, the motorcycle engine sputtering into silence. The quiet descended instantly, heavy and cloying. He climbed the stairs, the familiar dread of the encroaching night starting to prickle at him. He’d left all the lights on inside, a small, desperate act of defiance against the suffocating darkness he knew too well.

Inside, Yoru greeted him with a soft meow, rubbing against his legs. He reached down, his fingers automatically scratching behind her ears. The small, purring body was a comforting presence, a tiny anchor in the swirling chaos of his thoughts.

He kicked off his shoes, tossing his keys onto the small table by the door. The apartment felt more stifling than usual, despite the harsh glare of the overhead light. The encounter with that man had unsettled something deep within him, had scraped against a wound he thought he’d carefully cauterized.

He stalked into the small kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He leaned against the counter, staring at the condensation forming on the cold plastic, his mind replaying the scene.

His gaze drifted to the window. The city lights, once a distant, sparkling comfort, now seemed to press in, their artificial glow doing little to dispel the true, vast darkness beyond. He shivered, despite the warmth of the room. The nightmares. They will come tonight. He knew it. The whispers, the arguments, the cold judgment of his mother’s family. The suffocating blackness.

He walked into the living room, collapsing onto the worn sofa. Yoru, sensing his unease, jumped onto his lap, kneading her paws against his chest before settling into a purring lump. He absently stroked her fur, his gaze unfocused, drifting over the familiar imperfections of his flat. The chipped paint on the wall, the faint water stain on the ceiling from a past leak, the worn patch on the rug. Each imperfection was a tiny victory, a sign that this was his space, shaped by his choices, not dictated by the grand, sterile opulence of the Ryomen estate.

He hated how that man had made him feel small, exposed. He hated how he had to swallow his pride. And if he ever saw that white-haired anomaly again, he would ensure their next encounter would be far less cordial.

The night stretched before him, long and quiet, filled with the promise of restless sleep and the ever-present specter of his past. But for now, just the purr of his cat, the hum of the refrigerator, and the defiant glow of the lights in his small, solitary world.

And sleep, when it finally claimed him, was not a refuge, but a descent into the very torment he sought to outrun.

—----------------

Chapter Text

------------------------

The Itadori estate was hushed, yet the air crackled with a tension that pressed in on him like the walls of a coffin. He was fifteen again, a raw nerve, unable to sit still. He knew what they were saying, even if he couldn't quite grasp the full horror of the words. He was a difficult child, and couldn't be controlled. He fought, often because people just got on his nerves, their endless prodding and patronizing smiles pushing him to the edge. And school... a brutal, daily reminder of his curse. The words on the page swam, danced, defied his comprehension, leaving him with splitting headaches and a crushing sense of inadequacy. He wasn't smart like Yuuji. He was just... Sukuna.

The night it happened, the oppressive silence of the mansion was shattered by the familiar, escalating crescendo of voices. His parents were at it again, their arguments a venomous dance that usually revolved around him. He’d retreated to his room, a sprawling space that felt more like a cell, trying to drown out the noise with his headphones. But tonight, the words sliced before the music played, sharp and clear.

His father’s voice, calm and calculating, was edged with a rare fury. "I can’t do this anymore.”

Suddenly, a series of heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway towards his room. Sukuna flinched back from the door just as it burst open. His father stood there, his face contorted with anger, his mother a shadow behind him, wringing her hands. And then, his grandfather, his stern, unyielding gaze fixed on Sukuna.

"Get out," his father bit out, his voice low and dangerous.  "Pack a bag. You're leaving."

Sukuna stared, face bruised from fighting the bullies this afternoon at school. And they called his father. He knew it would turn ugly. He asked, disbelief warring with a terrifying realization. "Leaving? Where? What are you talking about?"

"You will go live with your mother's family," his grandfather interjected, his voice absolute.

"I'm not going!" Sukuna wanted to yell, like seven years ago, defiance flaring, a desperate attempt to regain some control over a situation spiraling out of his grasp. "This is my home! You can't just throw me out!" But he can’t.

His voice was gone. His mouth wouldn’t open.  In this place, he had no body, no power — just a pair of eyes forced open. The memory unfolded like theatre, and he was the unwilling audience.  A ghost in his own mind.

He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, his grandfather’s grip surprisingly strong. "You will go, Sukuna. This is not a request. This is a decision.”

He moved with a stiff, unnatural precision, every movement a deliberate act of quiet defiance. He could feel their eyes on him, cold and detached. No warmth, no regret. Just the grim satisfaction of a problem being dealt with.

The car ride was a blur. The city lights streamed past, blurring into streaks of color, mirroring the chaos in his mind. He was being taken away, banished. Confined to a new prison, one cloaked in forced politeness and condescending smiles. The darkness of the car, the tight space, the feeling of being utterly powerless and trapped – it all fused into a primal fear that would haunt him for years. This wasn't moving out; this was being discarded.

-----------------------

Sukuna opened his eyes.

But he knew this was another memory. Another nightmare. Another scene he had to watch, again and again.

Sukuna standing inside his mother's family house. Feeling like he's fifteen again.

The Ryomen house was a fortress of quiet efficiency, a shrine to cold, calculated power. It smelled of old paper, polished wood, and an ambition so potent it felt like a physical presence.

"You are here to be disciplined, Sukuna," his grandmother, the matriarch of the Ryomen clan, her voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Your behavior has been… unbecoming of a Ryomen. You will learn discretion. You will learn to focus. You will learn your place."

His place, he quickly discovered, was a solitary existence in a sprawling house filled with silent servants and the constant hum of unseen transactions. His lessons were no longer about literature or history, but about numbers, ledgers, and the cold, hard realities of the Ryomen enterprise. He was given tutors, but they were instructed to be strict, not understanding.

The figures on the ledger blurred as much as the words in a book. He'd spend hours, head throbbing, trying to make sense of columns of numbers that swam before his eyes, his grandmother's sharp criticisms echoing in his ears.

"You are slow, boy. Focus!" There was no patience, no diagnosis, no support for his learning disability.

He stared at the page, the columns of figures swimming, blurring into an incomprehensible mess. His head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat behind his eyes.

"Explain the discrepancy in this account, Sukuna," her voice, devoid of warmth, was like chipped ice. "Immediately."

His mouth wouldn’t open. His limbs wouldn’t move.

It wasn’t real — just a dream. He wasn’t here — not really.

"I… I can't," fifteenth year old Sukuna mumbled, defiance warring with a wave of desperate frustration.

No. No. Don’t—

He tried to scream, to reach out, to help — but nothing came.

Sukuna’s breath hitched. A prickle of primal fear began to spread through him. He knew this punishment.

His wildness, his quick temper, was met not with shouting, but with an icy, disapproving silence that felt far more chilling than any yell. And a cupboard.

Before his burgeoning panic could fully bloom, her strong, surprisingly quick hand clamped onto his arm. He struggled, a surge of adrenaline igniting his muscles. Sukuna could feel the strong grip, leaving a mark he won't forget.

He was shoved inside. The air immediately grew thick, stale, heavy with the scent of old wood and trapped dust. He heard the solid thud of the door closing, then the sickening click of the lock.

Darkness. Absolute, suffocating darkness.

"You will stay in here until you understand the value of discipline," she stated, her voice utterly dispassionate. "Perhaps the silence will help you focus your wild mind."

The silence was worse than any shout, colder than any insult. It was the silence of abandonment, of being forgotten, just as his parents and grandfather had discarded him. It was the same chilling indifference he felt radiating from his grandmother, a stark reminder that to her, he was just a problem to be corrected, a tool to be sharpened, not a living, breathing child.

He scrambled, hands scraping against the rough wood, tears stinging his eyes – tears of sheer, helpless rage more than sorrow. He kicked, he pounded, but the cupboard was solid, unyielding. He looked down at his hands. They were raw, scraped, and bleeding, bright red streaks marring his palms and fingers.

He was powerless. Against their expectations, against his own flawed mind, against the cold, unfeeling steel of his grandmother's discipline. Against this cupboard.

Now, he’s outside. Standing in front of the very cupboard he hate so much. He heard himself inside the cupboard trying to escape. And he lunged forward, tried to help the younger him. Because who else would help him?

"Let him out!" He screamed, his voice hoarse, his rage a boiling inferno. He pounded on the wood, the impact jarring his bones. He clawed at the seams of the door, his nails tearing against the unyielding surface. He dug his fingertips into the tiny gap where the lock engaged, desperate to pry it open, to free the small, trembling boy trapped within.

The wood resisted, splinters digging into his flesh. He kept scratching, the frantic, scraping sound deafening in the dream's silence. He could feel the warmth of blood blooming on his palms, coating his fingers, but he didn't stop. He pressed his ear against the wood, trying to hear, to offer some comfort, but there was only the frantic, choking sounds of his younger self, dissolving into silent, desperate sobs.

-------------------

Sukuna thrashed, his eyes snapped open, wide and wild, searching frantically for a light.

A desperate gasp for air. A choked cry ripping from his throat as he bolted upright from the sofa.

He was back in his small flat, thank God he always leave the lights on.

But the terror clung to him, a cold, clammy sweat drenching his body. Sukuna looked down at his hands. He had been scratching, frantically, at the impossible barrier in his dream.

His stomach convulsed, and he barely made it to the cramped bathroom before he was violently throwing up, his body wracked with dry heaves. The taste of bile in his mouth was a bitter complement to the acrid memories clinging to his mind. It had been years since he’d dreamed so vividly about that night, about the utter powerlessness, the profound abandonment. The exhaustion was a heavy cloak, weighing him down, leaving him feeling more tired than usual, as if he’d actually relived every grueling moment.

He stood there, panting, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes, usually sharp and cold, were glazed with a raw vulnerability he hated. The despair was a suffocating blanket, threatening to pull him under. He knew what he had to do. He reached for the small, hidden razor blade, its familiar weight a perverse comfort in his trembling hand. A precise cut, then another, the sharp sting a welcome distraction, a focused pain that momentarily eclipsed the unbearable emotional agony. It wasn't about punishment; it was about control, a desperate attempt to ground himself, to feel something tangible when his world threatened to unravel. It helped. Just enough.

He cleaned up, the mundane tasks a jarring return to reality. All he wanted was a normal life, a future free from this unending cycle of pain, a world where only he and his art existed. But the past was a relentless beast, always lurking, always ready to claw its way back into his carefully constructed solitude.

The cold water from the tap splashed against his face, a desperate attempt to wash away the lingering tendrils of the nightmare. Sukuna leaned against the bathroom sink, chest heaving, the faint scent of copper in the air. The self-inflicted wounds on his thigh throbbed, a dull ache that, paradoxically, grounded him more than the lingering terror of the dream. He was present now, in the unforgiving glare of his bathroom light, but the exhaustion was profound, a weight on his soul.

-----------------------

The stark light of morning did little to soothe the rawness within Sukuna. The nightmare, triggered by Satoru's careless words, had clawed its way out of the depths, leaving him hollowed out and profoundly weary. He had gone through the motions since, a temporary antidote to the overwhelming emotional pain. Now, sitting by his window, a mug of instant coffee steaming forgotten in his hand, his gaze drifted over the sprawling urban landscape of Tokyo.

This city. It was supposed to be his sanctuary, his perfect escape. He’d meticulously planned it, every detail a calculated strike against the shackles of his past. The scholarship, his ticket out, a path forged through sheer, desperate will, pushing his dyslexic mind through the academic barriers. The new life, a phantom identity he’d crafted to vanish into the nameless crowds. To the place where his grandmother won’t find out.

Tokyo was immense, a concrete ocean where a single person could drown in anonymity, never to be found. He’d chosen it precisely for that vastness, for the promise of disappearing. He genuinely believed that even if Yuuji was somewhere in this sprawling metropolis, the chances of them ever crossing paths were infinitesimally small. His plan was almost perfect.

Almost.

The bitter taste of coffee mingled with the metallic tang in his mouth. The perfect plan had one unforeseen flaw, one cruel twist of fate he could never have anticipated: Yuuji was here.

He still remembered that jarring moment, two weeks ago, in the university hallway. He'd been heading to the art studio, lost in his own thoughts, when a familiar, vibrant energy had cut through the mundane hum of student chatter. There he was. Yuuji. Laughing, surrounded by people, utterly oblivious to the existence of his twin just meters away. It had been a punch to the gut, a cold realization that his carefully constructed world had just developed a gaping, inescapable crack.

Tokyo was big enough for them not to meet, he'd thought. It was supposed to be big enough.

He’d envisioned a future where he could finally breathe, exist. But fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. To go through all that – the pain of his parents abandonment, the harsh words from his grandfather, the torture of his mother's family, the agonizing business training in the States, the forced lessons of his grandmother who preferred Yuuji but got him instead – only to find himself sharing the same university grounds with the very person he needed to be distanced from.

He clenched his jaw. It wasn't fair. For him, for Yuuji. He didn't want Yuuji to get caught up in the cesspool of the Ryomen's dirty business, true. But he also needed that fundamental, undeniable connection to just cease existing. To live. To do what he likes. To have a future with his art.

He needed to be someone, not "Yuuji's twin."

And Yuuji's presence here made that impossible. It meant constant vigilance, constant fear of discovery, constant reminders of a past he'd tried to bury alive.

The exhaustion from the nightmare pressed down on him, a heavy reminder of the past's relentless grip. He had no more fight to put into endless battles. He just wanted a quiet life, a future where his brain didn't scream from the effort of reading, where his body wasn't a canvas for the scars of emotional pain. A future where he could simply create art, find some semblance of peace.

But someone like him, marked by a lineage that screamed aggression and a mind that fought against the very tools of modern education, was destined to be far from normal. Could he ever truly achieve it, with Yuuji unexpectedly woven into the fabric of his meticulously planned escape?

He finished his coffee, the bitter dregs mirroring the taste in his mouth. The answer, for now, remained elusive. But one thing was clear: his vigilance had to be absolute. He had to ensure that the unforeseen variable, Yuuji, remained just that – an unacknowledged presence, a ghost to his ghost.

------------------------

Sukuna was gone before the door even finished closing behind him.

No goodbye. No thank you. Just silence and the clipped echo of retreating steps down the stairwell.

Satoru stood there for a moment, hand still on the doorknob, as if the air hadn’t quite settled yet. Then he exhaled, slow and amused, and turned away.

Sukuna is like a peculiar burr under his skin that refuses to be smoothed over. He idly spun a pen between his fingers, his eyes half-lidded as he stared out over the cityscape.

Most interactions, people he met, they were fleeting, forgettable, but that one… that one had left a mark.

He’d seen the shift in the kid's face. The instant he’d uttered it, that casual, almost reflexive, "Yuuji's twin?" Satoru had watched the blood drain from his cheeks, seen the subtle stiffening of his posture, the quick, frantic dart of his eyes as if searching for an escape. The kid had practically bolted, leaving his presence like a bad smell.

A slow, private smile curved Satoru's lips. It wasn't a kind smile. There was a glimmer of amusement in his bright blue eyes, a detached satisfaction. That flicker of raw pain, the barely contained flinch… it was, in a word, amusing. Most people were so transparent, their emotions plastered across their faces for all to see. But this one had tried so hard to hide it, and in that fleeting moment, he had failed spectacularly.

What did that expression mean?

Scared?

Annoyed?

Rage?

Satoru wondered, a spark of genuine curiosity igniting in his mind. He wasn't bothered by the distress; rather, he found the intensity of the reaction fascinating. It wasn't just surprise at being recognized; it was something deeper, something visceral. It hinted at layers, at secrets, at a past more complicated than a simple twin dynamic.

And beneath the amusement, a faint ripple of something akin to satisfaction spread through him. The kid looked like he was struggling, working some low-paying delivery job, living a life far removed from any perceived privilege.

Good. That's what he deserved, anyway.

Abandoned his family, his responsibilities, the life that had been laid out for him. Leaving Yuuji. If his twin had chosen to walk away, to turn his back on everything, then a life of quiet struggle, of running errands and scraping by, seemed like a fitting consequence.

Satoru found himself almost happy at the thought. The world often felt too easy, too predictable. People rarely faced true consequences for their choices, especially those born with certain advantages. But this kid, with his striking face and his evident pain, seemed to be living out his penance.

A more significant thought flickered across Satoru's mind, cementing his decision. He wouldn't mention this to Yuuji. Not yet. Yuuji, bless his empathetic heart, would undoubtedly react with immediate concern, with that boundless desire to help everyone, even those who didn't want it. If Yuuji knew his twin was struggling, working part time job, looking utterly lost, he would instantly try to intervene. He'd offer help, reach out, try to smooth things over.

And that, Satoru decided, would ruin everything.

He didn't want to fix Yuuji's twin. He didn't want Yuuji to fix his twin.

Like a boy with a fascinating new toy, Satoru wanted to unravel Sukuna himself. He wanted to peel his layers one by one. He wanted to see how deep the struggle went, how much more interesting that expression of agony could become.

He remembered another pair of eyes once — distant, unreadable, gone before he could ever ask why. This one wasn’t the same. But there was something haunting about it. Something cruel and delicate and breakable.

And he wanted to break it. Not all at once. Not with force.

But piece by piece. Word by word.

He wanted to know what it would take to make that calm veneer crack open wide.

His smile widened, a genuinely predatory gleam in his dazzling blue eyes. Oh, yes. Their paths would definitely cross again.

And next time, Satoru wouldn’t just be watching.

He’d be pulling strings.

-------------------------

Chapter Text

------------------------------

Yuuji pushed open the heavy door to the art studio, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. After signing up a few days ago, now, he’s finally here. 

Yuuji stood just inside the art club room, wide-eyed but eager, cradling a sketchpad to his chest like a shield. The sun hung low through the wide windows, casting golden beams across smudged easels and half-dried oil paint. The scent of turpentine clung to the air, sharp but familiar. Brushes clicked softly against the edge of mugs, pages turned, and the steady hum of low conversation stitched the silence together like a careful thread.

His eyes scanned the room, bypassing the scattered canvases and clay-splattered tables, searching for one familiar silhouette. He'd seen Sukuna on campus, fleeting glimpses, enough to make his stomach clench with a mix of disbelief and desperate hope. He needed to talk to him.

Sukuna was there, at the corner of the room, alone, slouched, distant, black hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, ink-stained fingers curled around a piece of charcoal. He hadn’t looked up once.

Not even when Yuuji walked in. Not even when their eyes almost met.

Yuuji hovered there awkwardly for a few moments, unsure if he was supposed to sit or wait. His eyes drifted to Sukuna again. He wanted to say something. He wanted to call his name.

And then, he saw it. Sukuna’s painting. His art. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen, unsettling yet mesmerizing. "Woah…" he murmured, stepping closer, utterly captivated by the art, by the artist, and by his brother.

Sukuna had always been like this. Even as a small child, he'd had a way with things. It wasn't just drawing stick figures or coloring inside the lines. Sukuna's art, even then, was always beautiful. It wasn't just pretty; it possessed a depth, a raw honesty that drew people in. His drawings weren't just images; they told stories. They spoke of a wildness, a complexity that Yuuji, even as his twin, couldn't fully grasp.

He remembered a watercolor painting Sukuna had done, just before everything changed. A stormy sea, dark and churning, with a single, defiant ship battling the waves. It was so vivid, so alive, that Yuuji had felt the spray on his face, tasted the salt on his tongue. It made people stop and stare, compelled by the sheer, unadulterated talent that poured from his brother's fingertips. He was a natural, a prodigy, blessed with a gift that no one in their family truly understood or appreciated.

"Sukuna.." Yuuji's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the sharp lines of his brother's profile, but giving him space. Sukuna's hand stilled for a fraction of a second, the charcoal tip hovering over the paper, before he resumed his sketching as if he hadn't heard. Yuuji tried again, a little louder this time. "Sukuna, hey... it's me. Yuuji." He said it as if Sukuna had forgotten about him.

This time, Sukuna's hand stopped more abruptly, the charcoal snapping under the pressure. He finally looked up, his red eyes, so familiar yet so cold, meeting Yuuji's. There was no flicker of recognition, no softening, just a hard, almost hostile stare.

"What do you want?" Sukuna's voice was low and flat, laced with an irritation that made Yuuji flinch. So direct and devoid of any affection, stung more than Yuuji anticipated.

"I... I just wanted to talk," Yuuji managed, his hands clenching into fists within his pockets. He desperately wanted to bridge the vast chasm of silence that had stretched between them for so long, but the words felt inadequate, clumsy. "I was surprised to see you here."

Sukuna’s lips curled into a sardonic smirk. "Surprised? Why? Did you think I'd vanished off the face of the earth?" He set his jaw, his gaze hardening. "Or are you here to gawk? To see how the prodigal twin is doing in the real world without your precious family's handouts?"

The words hit Yuuji like a physical blow. The bitterness in Sukuna's voice was sharp and unexpected. "No, that's not it at all," Yuuji protested, his voice thick with hurt. 

Sukuna's eyes narrowed, burning with an intensity that made Yuuji feel like he was being dissected under a harsh light. "Listen, don’t act like we know each other. Your family made it very clear seven years ago—and from what I can see, you’ve already moved on just fine. You have your perfect little life, your perfect little friends." He gestured dismissively with his hand. "Leave me to mine."

"That’s not true," he snapped, voice shaking. "I haven’t moved on. I never moved on. If anything, it looks like you’re the one who has." He gestured around the art studio, his voice gaining a sharper edge, fueled by the injustice of Sukuna's words. His emotions flared, unable to hold back anymore. For seven years, he had been trying to find Sukuna—reaching out, searching, clinging to whatever trace he could find. And now Sukuna dared to say he was the one who moved on?

"Judging by the fact that your number has been disconnected for seven years, your existence has been so thoroughly untraceable, Sukuna, it was like you vanished off the face of the earth. And you have the audacity to say I'm the one who moved on? You're not being fair, you know." 

Sukuna’s jaw tensed, his eyes flicking around the art club room where people had begun to glance in their direction. He hated this—being watched, being the center of attention. And more than that, he hated how Yuuji could still stir up this kind of chaos inside him.

"And why do you think that happened, Yuuji?" Sukuna shot back, voice low but sharp. His crimson eyes flashed with anger, his jaw tightening. He glanced around the art studio, his senses acutely aware of the other students who had begun to subtly turn their heads, their quiet artistic focus now drawn to the simmering tension between the twins.

Yuuji’s fists clenched. His voice cracked as it rose. "I don’t know, Sukuna! I don’t know—that’s why I’m here. That’s why I want to talk to you. I want to understand what really happened. I deserve an explanation—if you still even consider me your brother." His voice shook slightly, the accusation laced with years of unspoken pain and unanswered questions.

Sukuna’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. He stared at Yuuji, unsure how to respond. He always knew Yuuji was naïve—too optimistic, too trusting—but he didn’t realize Yuuji was this clueless about why he left. Yuuji never saw the darker side of their family, never understood how much pain Sukuna had to swallow just to survive. Always seeing the best in people, stubbornly clinging to the idea of family, even after everything that had happened. It angered Sukuna. He kept his gaze fixed on Yuuji.

Yuuji, the twin who had everything. Their parents’ love. Their grandfather’s approval. The life Sukuna had always wanted, a life laid out for him without the suffocating expectations that had plagued Sukuna. In that moment, Sukuna felt a bitter resentment towards Yuuji, a feeling that Yuuji was the one being unfair. And now he dared to say he wasn’t being treated fairly? deserves an explanation? What about an explanation why their parents hate Sukuna's gut and want him to leave? What about an explanation why Sukuna had to be the one to be sent away?

The fragile urge to finally explain the truth, the suffocating weight of the Itadori and Ryomen family’s expectations, the constant pressure to conform – it all flickered within him, a brief spark that was quickly extinguished by the cold, hard reality of his situation. No, this was for the best. Sukuna felt a surge of conflicting emotions. What was the point anyway? Telling Yuuji would only drag him into a danger he didn’t understand. If Sukuna told him the truth—if he let Yuuji back in—then it was only a matter of time before the Ryomen family found him again. Everything Sukuna had done to escape, to stay hidden, would be for nothing.

If he could just make Yuuji hate him, make him believe there was nothing left between them, maybe Yuuji would finally give up. Maybe… maybe if he just said it—if he told Yuuji he didn’t see him as a brother anymore—then Yuuji would give up. He would retreat, and Sukuna would remain hidden, safe from the clutches of the Ryomen family. If Yuuji ever got too close, with his bright personality and the inevitable attention he drew, Sukuna was certain he would be dragged back into that nightmare. Sukuna braced himself, the harsh words already forming on his tongue, ready to sever the last remaining tie. He was about to say it, about to tell Yuuji that he no longer considered him a brother, but the words caught in his throat, sitting on the edge of his tongue. The words were right there, They felt like ash in his mouth, a bitter lie that his heart refused to utter.

Sukuna couldn’t say them.

Because no matter how much he tried to bury it, that wasn’t the truth. And lying like that—cutting Yuuji off completely—felt harder than anything he’d ever done.

There was a long pause.

Sukuna didn’t move. But Yuuji didn’t leave either.

Just then, a staff member, a woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm, poked her head into the art club studio, her gaze sweeping across the room. "Ryomen Sukuna? Could you come with me for a moment? Principal Tengen would like a word regarding your scholarship." Her tone was polite but carried an air of authority that drew the attention of several nearby students.

Sukuna's tense posture eased almost imperceptibly, a fleeting, unreadable expression flickering across his face. He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor in the sudden hush. His gaze flicked towards Yuuji, a brief, almost disdainful look that conveyed nothing but a desire for distance, Sukuna closed his eyes, a familiar wave of exhaustion washing over him, a weary acceptance that some battles, especially those of perception, were no longer worth the fight. “You shouldn’t have come.” The words came out lower than he intended. Not harsh. Just flat. Tired. And then he turned and followed the staff member out of the studio, his silhouette disappearing through the doorway. Yuuji watched him go, the abrupt departure leaving a hollow ache in his chest, a stark reminder of the vast and bitter chasm that separated them.

—-----------------------

The lecture hall hummed with the usual drowsy drone of a Wednesday afternoon economics class. Satoru Gojo leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, feigning boredom. Sunglasses pushed up into his white hair, grinning like he was on vacation instead of sitting through the first lecture of the new economics module.

Truth be told, "Cultural Economics" was one of the few classes that actually amused him. Specifically designed to bridge the gap between creative passion and commercial viability. As such, it often drew a motley crew: it was a required elective for business majors dabbling in niche markets, and surprisingly, a popular one for art students looking to actually sell their creations. It was a delightful blend of dry numbers and chaotic creativity. This unique blend meant the class often had students from various academic years, from wide-eyed freshmen dabbling outside their major to jaded third-years looking for an easy elective.

Beside him, Megumi Fushiguro sat ramrod straight, taking meticulous notes. Satoru often wondered why Megumi, an art major, tolerated his antics, but the kid had the patience of a saint. Usually, Yuuji would be on Megumi's other side, radiating pure sunshine and making the whole experience slightly less insufferable.

"Now, for your major project this semester," Professor Yaga announced, his voice booming through the hall, a hint of a wry smile playing on his lips, "as you all know, our Campus Anniverasy is a significant event that showcases the diverse talents of our students. Your project will be to conceive, develop, and present a viable business idea or application suitable for the fair. This project will account for a significant portion of your final grade, so I strongly advise you to choose your partners wisely and start brainstorming early." He adjusted his glasses, his gaze sweeping over the attentive students.

Satoru perked up, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Guess who’s about to revolutionize the campus art market," he whispered to Megumi, who didn’t even look up from his notes.

"Not you," Megumi replied flatly.

"Incorrect! It’s me. And maybe Yuuji if he plays his cards right."

Megumi sighed. "Yuuji’s not here. He went to the art club meeting."

Satoru sat up straighter, exaggeratedly blinking. "He ditched us? His friends? His boyfriend? For—what—his long-lost twin with the resting murder face?"

Megumi frowned,  "Don’t say that."

"Oh, I can and I will . What happened to loyalty? What happened to ‘solidarity’?" Satoru clutched his chest dramatically. "Betrayed by my own pink-haired disciple."

Before Megumi could reply, their professor—strode to the front and continued, "The goal is simple, the art student will create a piece of work – painting, sculpture, installation, whatever aligns with their practice. The business student will be responsible for its market strategy and, crucially, its sale. Your grade will be based on the successful sale of the artwork. The project is due the last day before the anniversary, which means you have 3 months to complete your work, giving you plenty of time to collaborate and strategize."

A quiet murmur went through the room. "You will be graded together . If your art partner doesn’t produce work, your grade suffers. If your business partner can’t sell, your grade suffers. Choose wisely."

Satoru turned to Megumi, winking. "Looks like fate wants us together."

"No."

"Aw, come on—"

"You’re terrible in groups. You procrastinate. You flirt with everyone."

"Those are all strengths in some cultures."

"I’m working with Yuuji."

Satoru let out a theatrical groan, flopping back into his seat. "Look! Yuuji is not even here! Now, you're with me! We'll make a killing. Your brooding art, my dazzling charm. It's foolproof." Megumi, however, merely sighed, not even bothering to look at him. “No.”

“This is how legends are forgotten , Megumi.” Satoru's grin faltered. As students began whispering to each other and organizing partners, Satoru sat up again and scanned the class. He needed an art student. Someone manageable. Or hot. Preferably both.

—-----------------------

Down in the administrative wing of the arts building, Sukuna sat stiffly in a chair, done filling out paperwork for his scholarship. His handwriting was neat, disciplined, almost mechanical. He hated this part. The air in the room was still, carrying a faint scent of old paper and quiet authority. The fluorescent lights of the administrative office always gave him a headache. Across from him, a tired-looking staff member watched him with the flat exhaustion of someone underpaid and overworked. Still, they softened a little when handing over the final page to sign. He waited for the staff to finish inputting his details. It was a necessary evil, this periodic check-in, part of the endless hoops he had to jump through to maintain his tenuous hold on this new life. His mind was still reeling from the encounter with Yuuji. 

Sukuna turned, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Standing there, radiating an almost unnatural aura of calm authority, was Principal Tengen. A figure of immense power within the university, rarely seen outside of major events. Sukuna had only ever observed him from a distance.

Tengen wasn’t someone Sukuna interacted with much. Most people didn’t. The principal was reclusive, calm to the point of eeriness, their face always obscured behind sheer layers of white cloth.

Tengen's smile was benevolent, but his eyes held a keen, intelligent gaze that seemed to miss nothing. "I was just speaking with the Head of the Arts Department about your recent work. The one from the entrance portfolio. It's quite exceptional."

Sukuna felt a flicker of pride, quickly suppressed. He hated praise, especially from figures of authority.

Tengen continued, his smile broadening. "So exceptional, in fact, that we've had an inquiry. Your piece—‘Fracture No. 4’—was seen by a visiting curator last week. They’ve made an offer. A very high price, I might add. A very generous patron of the arts."

Sukuna's eyes widened. A high price? For his painting? A wave of genuine, if surprised, pleasure washed over him.

Sukuna blinked. "An… offer?"

"They wish to purchase the painting."

He sat back, stunned. It was the first time someone had shown interest in his work, but this was the first sale . Real money. Recognition.

"You'll get a significant portion of the sale, of course, and we’ll arrange the transfer. You'll receive fifty percent— a portion of the proceeds. The rest goes to the university's gallery fund. Standard terms."

Sukuna didn’t really care about the split. Fifty percent of a good sale could cover rent for two months. The joy was intoxicating, a sweet, rare taste.

But then Tengen's expression became more serious. "We're very pleased to see such talent emerging from our freshman class. However," Tengen continued, their tone shifting slightly, "as you are aware, your scholarship is contingent upon your continued contribution to the university's artistic endeavors. With the Campus Anniversary approaching in approximately three months, we would like you to create another significant piece to be showcased during the event. This will not only benefit the university but will also ensure that your scholarship remains in good standing for the upcoming academic year."

Sukuna's pleasure immediately morphed into a familiar, intense pressure. Another piece? in 3 months? to be showcased during an event? His mind, already buzzing with the recent encounter with Yuuji, now had to shift gears entirely. But oddly, it wasn't the suffocating, soul-crushing dread of the Ryomen family's or anyone's demands. This was different. This was the type of stress he liked. The frantic, exhilarating rush of a deadline. The challenge of creation. His creation, His art. His. The need to pour himself into this, not out of obligation to a cruel family, but to maintain the meager freedom he'd fought so hard for. So, he nodded, "Understood, Principal. I'll get it done." He would. He had to.

Pressure returned, but it was a good kind. The kind that pushed him forward instead of burying him. He stood, bowed lightly out of habit, and left.

As he walked down the hallway, the buzz of excitement mixed with tension hummed in his fingertips. Someone had seen value in what he made. His art. Someone had looked and wanted it. Sukuna was beaming. For the first time in seven years, Sukuna felt hope—and it was warm, almost overwhelming. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this feeling. It filled his chest like sunlight after a long, brutal winter. Real, aching, beautiful hope.

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Chapter Text

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Satoru Gojo had always lived in a world where everything he wanted was handed to him before he even asked.

From the moment he could form memories, Satoru Gojo’s world was paved in polished marble and tempered glass, a glittering labyrinth where every whim was granted before it could even settle on his tongue. Shoes from Paris arrived a season early; private tutors materialized at dawn to drill Greek, calculus, and violin; chauffeurs shadowed him in sleek black sedans that purred like well‑fed beasts. The Gojo family was not simply wealthy—they were the quiet axis around which vast swathes of Japan’s economy turned, their influence spiraling into real‑estate barons, pharmaceutical giants, media empires, and the politicians who whispered their name with a mix of awe and dread. In that constellation of power, Satoru glittered as the lone heir, a diamond destined for a crown he never asked to wear.

Everyone around him called him lucky. And maybe he was—he was handsome, smart, charming, and funny. People liked him. Adults praised him. Strangers stared at him like he was a star. But even as a child, Satoru knew the truth: his life wasn’t really his. His family had plans for him, and they didn’t ask what he wanted. The rules were clear. He could enjoy his freedom—but only as long as he remained useful. The moment he disobeyed, the freedom would disappear. Every favor life handed him came knotted to an invisible leash.

On the surface, the role fit him like silk. He was beautiful, brilliant, and impossible to ignore; classrooms bent toward his laughter the way flowers bend toward sun.  He could eat whatever he liked—so long as he attended the banquets that showcased the family brand. He could laugh—so long as cameras caught the angle that best flattered the Gojo Family. He could dream—so long as those dreams marched in lockstep with Gojo corporate strategy. Freedom, he realized early, was a privilege on loan, revoked the instant he ceased to be useful.

He grew up being watched. Being shaped. Being trained. And somewhere along the way, he started to hate it. The pressure. The expectations. The way people smiled at him because of his last name, not because of who he was. His first true act of rebellion was deceptively small: at twelve, after years of being homeschooled, he insisted on enrolling in a “normal” junior‑high school.  Of course, it wasn’t really normal—it was still elite and full of rich kids—but it was the first time Satoru got to choose something for himself, yet within those manicured halls he found what no amount of money could manufacture—friends who saw the boy before the surname. 

Shoko Ieiri’s dry wit, Utahime Iori’s steady moral compass, and above all Geto Suguru—sharp, sardonic, incandescent—taught Satoru that not every soul could be bought or bent. In Geto’s fierce idealism he glimpsed a world governed by conviction rather than convenience, and in that blaze of conviction his own heart caught fire. By the time adolescence surrendered to university entrance exams, Geto had become both best friend and first love, the singular variable that made Satoru believe his story might yet diverge from the Gojo blueprint.

Geto didn’t treat Satoru like some rich boy. He treated him like a person. They became close—closer than anyone else.

Then, without warning, Geto vanished. No forwarded address, no cryptic apology—just a severed line that even the Gojo surveillance machine could not trace. The loss carved a hollow behind Satoru’s ribs, and with ruthless efficiency his family poured heir‑training into the void.  The hole Geto left never really healed. But life moved on, and so did Satoru. 

Being heartbroken and all, He chose to study business in Tokyo—half for his cousin Yuta, who was also going there, and half because it was the last chance he had to feel like a normal people. And business school was non‑negotiable, it became Satoru’s next battleground. He argued, bargained, and finally secured the right to study in Tokyo. The bargain was stark: four years of freedom in exchange for absolute submission the moment he graduated.

He squeezed every drop of color from that loophole—late‑night ramen with Yuuji Itadori’s endless optimism, Megumi Fushiguro’s guarded loyalty, Nobara’s caustic sparkle, Panda’s easy strength. Yet even on the freest nights Satoru felt the Gojo gaze prickling at the edges: Even now, at this university, he could feel their presence. Professors treated him a little too nicely. Staff smiled a little too wide. They were keeping an eye on him, always. So when Principal Tengen summoned him for a “chat,” Satoru’s amusement was tinged with weary déjà‑vu. Either the family was flexing its muscles, or Tengen intended to borrow them—same melody, different conductor.

He parted ways with Megumi outside their economics lecture, slipped on his trademark sunglasses, and sauntered toward the faculty wing, scattering flirtatious greetings with the practiced ease of a prince among commoners. Girls lingered in doorframes, laughter trailed behind him like perfume, and still his mind ticked through possible demands Tengen might level: a donation drive, a headline‑grabbing partnership, another discreet favor to remind him whose son he was.

Then he saw Sukuna.

The twin Satoru had pegged as all sharp angles and perpetual dusk stepped out of Tengen’s office bathed in a light that did not belong in the corridor’s sterile glow.  Sukuna looked… radiant.

Satoru blinked, unsure for a moment if he was seeing things. The same Sukuna he had seen around campus—the one with hollow eyes, a cold stare, and an aura that warned people to stay away—now looked like he was almost glowing. His face, always pale, held a faint blush. His lips, usually pressed into a straight line, were curled up slightly, just enough to suggest a smile. His eyes—God, his eyes—looked bright. Alive. Like someone had lit a fire behind them. It wasn’t happiness, exactly. But it was close.

Dark hoodie, inked forearms, and bruised under‑eyes remained, but something within him blazed. For one suspended breath Satoru forgot to move. He counted the quick rise of Sukuna’s chest, the restless spark beneath his skin, the way the world seemed to dilate around a boy who usually worn despair like a second shadow. Satoru stood there, watching him like a man watching a wild animal do something unexpected. He noticed everything. The sleeves pushed back from Sukuna’s tattooed arms, the deep circles under his eyes, the faint bounce in his step.

Why was he paying this much attention to someone he supposedly didn’t care about?

Simple. Because enemies require attention. That’s what he told himself.

Satoru tilted his head, a slow, amused smile forming on his lips. Suddenly, his annoyance about meeting Tengen melted away. Because, what the hell happened in that room? Why? What alchemy had Tengen worked in that office to coax such radiance from someone who guarded every emotion behind iron doors? What the hell made Ryomen Sukuna shine like that? Not even seeing Yuuji made Sukuna look this radiant. And really—what could possibly bring more joy than being reunited with your twin after seven years apart?

And more importantly—

Why did it make something twist in his chest?

Curiosity coiled through Satoru’s veins, hot and bright. If Tengen wished to exploit Gojo power, perhaps Satoru could exploit Tengen’s information in return. Questions sharpened into opportunity; reluctance hardened into resolve. His earlier indifference dissolved as Sukuna turned down the corridor toward the art studios, the glow still flickering around him like an afterimage.

Satoru watched until the hoodie disappeared around the corner, a slow, lopsided grin unfurling across his face. Forget predictable negotiations—today promised intrigue. And Satoru Gojo, heir reluctant yet undeniably lethal, had just discovered a mystery vivid enough to make the golden cage feel, for one heartbeat, almost exciting.

-----------------

The campus cafeteria buzzed with the usual mid-afternoon noise. Laughter, trays clattering, chairs scraping against the tiled floor—it was alive with the rhythm of students catching a breath between classes. The scent of fried chicken and curry rice lingered in the air, mixing with the sugary aroma of melon soda and sweet breads. The big windows let in light that reflected off the glossy tables, and every corner of the space was packed—some students deep in conversation, others just trying to find a seat.

At one end of the room, a group of first-years sat huddled together, trying their best to ignore the loud jeers coming from the next table. A couple of upperclassmen were picking on them—nothing physical, but the words still stung. It was the kind of thing that always made Yuuji want to jump in. Usually, he would’ve stood up by now, maybe with Megumi or Nobara at his side. But today, he just stared at his untouched food, poking absently at a bowl of miso soup that had long since gone cold.

He sat with his usual group—Megumi, Yuta, Maki, Nanami and Haibara, Utahime, and Shoko—at their usual table near the vending machines. But something about him felt… dimmer today. Like someone had turned down the brightness inside him. And Megumi noticed, of course. He always did. But he didn’t say anything yet.

From across the cafeteria came the sound of familiar bickering — loud, obnoxious, impossible to miss.

"Seriously, Panda, if you grab one more meat bun, I swear to god—"

"You weren’t gonna eat it anyway, Nobara!"

"I was saving it for last, you oversized raccoon!"

Panda and Nobara arrived at the table with trays piled embarrassingly high with food. Nobara dropped her tray with a dramatic sigh, shooting a death glare at Panda, who just grinned and sat down next to her.

“God,” Nobara grumbled, glaring over her shoulder, “One of these days I’m gonna throw a lunch tray at those guys.”

She tilted her chin toward the corner of the cafeteria — a group of first-years were huddled together, clearly being teased and shoved by a louder, rowdier group. The usual cafeteria bullies. Yuuji didn’t even look.

Shoko leaned her chin in her hand, sipping iced coffee through a straw. “Don’t bother. They won’t stop. You’ll just get detention for breaking someone’s nose.”

“That’d be worth it,” Nobara muttered darkly.

Panda looked at Yuuji and frowned. “Wait… what’s with you, Yuuji? You’re usually the first one to jump in and stop that kind of stuff.”

Yuuji didn’t answer. He kept stirring the rice, slower now.

Utahime raised an eyebrow, setting her lunchbox down. Her voice was softer than usual. "Is this about Sukuna?"

The table went quiet.

Megumi turned to Yuuji immediately. He didn’t say anything, just looked at him with that calm, focused gaze of his. The kind that saw more than he let on. His hand moved under the table, resting lightly on Yuuji’s arm—a quiet gesture of comfort, steady and grounding.

Yuuji blinked. "You heard?"

Utahime gave a small shrug. "Word spreads fast in the art club. People said you were arguing with the new guy. Didn’t catch the details, just that it was loud." Her tone wasn’t accusing—just curious, careful, the way people are when they know something might hurt.

Maki leaned in, crossing her arms on the table. "Wait—so what happened? You finally talked to Sukuna, and it turned into a fight?"

"Come on, just tell us," Nobara added, kicking lightly at his foot under the table. 

Yuuji finally lifted his head. He looked around at them—his friends, his support—and then let out a slow breath.

"Yeah," he said. "I saw him for the first time today. In the art club." His voice was quiet, but steady now. "I thought… I don’t know, I thought it’d be a moment. Like, some kind of reunion. I’ve imagined it so many times over the years." Everyone was silent, listening. Yuuji continued, "But, we ended up arguing. He said some really harsh stuff, and I let it get to me. I let him push my buttons. I got angry when I should’ve stayed calm."

As Yuuji spoke, the table seemed to fall into stillness. The usual lunchtime noise faded into the background, muffled by the weight of his words. No one interrupted. Even Nobara, always quick to comment, stayed quiet, her chopsticks paused mid-air. Maki’s brow furrowed slightly, her usual sharpness softened into something almost protective. Haibara leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes wide with quiet sympathy. Shoko sipped her drink without a word, gaze focused and thoughtful. And Megumi—Megumi didn’t speak at all, but he never looked away, his hand holding Yuuji’s the whole time, a silent anchor. 

Yuuji looked down at his hands and Megumi, searching for some comfort. "That’s how he is. He gets defensive when he’s hiding something. He lashes out. I should’ve remembered that. But I didn’t. I wanted answers so badly, I forgot how to talk to him. I let myself get pulled into his storm. I know he didn’t mean to hurt me. Sukuna doesn’t... he’s not cruel. Not deep down. I know him. Even after all these years—I know."

"And I’m not giving up," Yuuji said firmly, lifting his eyes again. "I’ve waited too long. I’ll try again. And again. I just… need to be smarter next time. Calmer. I have to reach him. I need to know what happened. I need to know why he left. I want my brother back."

"You sure?" Maki raised an eyebrow. "’Cause from the way you’re talking, he sounds like a total ass."

"He kind of is," Yuuji said with a dry laugh. "But he’s my brother. I can’t just leave him like this."

Haibara, who had been quiet until now, suddenly perked up. He was sitting between Nanami and Megumi, eyes wide with the kind of energy only Haibara could get away with.

"Then let’s help you!" he said, grinning. "Why should you do this alone? If he’s really not that bad, maybe he just needs to meet the right people. We’ll help soften him up!"

Nanami looked at him sharply. "We shouldn’t get too involved."

"But—" Haibara turned to the rest of the group. "Come on, guys. Think about it. If we all talk to him, even just a little, maybe he’ll feel less cornered? Less alone?"

Panda grinned. "I’m in. I share a management class with him. I can chat him up."

Yuta raised his hand. "History class. I’ve seen him there twice."

"Same here," Nanami muttered. "Though I doubt he’s ever noticed us."

"I see him at the gym sometimes," Maki added. "I’ll say something next time. Just don't expect me to be nice about it."

"I’ve got art club with him," Utahime said. "I can try too."

"I don’t share any classes," Nobara admitted, cracking her knuckles. "But I’m excellent at stalking. I’ll find him."

"And I’ll do what I can when I see him around the halls," Shoko said, finishing her coffee.

Yuuji stared at them all, mouth slightly open. "Guys... no, really, you don’t have to do this. Sukuna can be—"

"Scary?" Panda said.

"Rude?" Nobara offered.

"Emotionally constipated?" Shoko added.

"Yeah. All that," Yuuji said. "I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. Or take it personally. He bites when people get too close."

Megumi, still holding Yuuji’s arm, gave a small nod. His touch was steady. Reassuring.

"It’s okay," he seemed to say without words. "We’re with you."

"You’re not alone, Yuuji," Haibara said gently. "And neither is Sukuna. Not anymore."

Yuuji offered a smal smile and a sudden chorus of buzzes rippled through the table—phones lit up in near perfect sync, vibrating against trays and tabletops. Everyone froze, glancing around at each other before flipping their screens. It was the group chat. At the top, a new message from Satoru:“Guess what kind of delicious intel I just got on Sukuna?”

Before anyone could react, another notification popped up—Satoru had renamed their group chat from “Bench Buddies” to “Project Sukuna.”

Nobara blinked at her phone, then slowly looked up with a flat stare. “Satoru Gojo,” she said, voice laced with theatrical dread, “is a menace.” She held up the screen for everyone to see. “Honestly, anything connected to the Gojo family is just… terrifying. I mean—look at this guy. He’s not even here with us and already scheming.”

Yuta, seated beside her, let out a quiet laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly torn between apologizing and denying nothing. The others exchanged looks—equal parts entertained, confused, and mildly alarmed. And Yuuji didn’t say anything. He just stared at the new group name glowing on his screen, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. Everyone else was still groaning at Satoru’s antics, but Yuuji’s thoughts drifted elsewhere. His fingers hovered over the phone for a moment, then slowly set it down beside his untouched food. A quiet ache sat heavy in his chest. Please don’t hate this, Sukuna, he thought. Please don’t shut down even more.

He knew better than anyone how much Sukuna hated attention—how being cornered or crowded made him recoil like something wounded. And now here they were: a whole group of people plotting around him, even if their intentions were kind. But Yuuji also knew he couldn’t do this alone. He’d already messed it up once, today, letting frustration win. Sukuna had shut him out, and maybe he deserved that. Still, he had to try again. He had to understand. And if that meant risking a little pushback, if that meant dragging Sukuna a little closer to the light—then Yuuji would carry the guilt. He could take it.

He just hoped Sukuna could, too.

-------------------

The Tokyo evening draped the city in a soft, almost melancholic stillness, a fragile quiet that felt like a temporary truce in the urban sprawl. From the precarious perch of his narrow balcony, Sukuna leaned against the cool, rough texture of the chipped concrete railing, the weight of the day settling in his bones. A half-smoked cigarette, its ember a tiny defiant spark against the encroaching darkness, hung loosely between his fingers, forgotten for the moment.

Below, the city sprawled like an overturned jewelry box, thousands of lights twinkling with a distant, impersonal energy. They pulsed and shimmered, trapped within the intricate web of power lines that crisscrossed the sky like dark, insistent veins, and reflected in the countless high-rise windows that pierced the night. It was a familiar sight, a constant hum of life that usually faded into background noise for him, but tonight, it felt alien, distant.

Behind him, the small apartment glowed with a muted warmth. The low hum of the kitchen light was a constant, comforting drone, and a soft, focused beam spilled from the angled neck of the desk lamp near his untouched canvas, illuminating the pristine white surface like a silent challenge. This carefully curated warmth was the only kind he allowed himself – contained, manageable, easily extinguished. Nothing that could reach too deep, nothing that hinted at connection or vulnerability.

This night had been a self-imposed exile from the world. No hurried delivery shifts through the city's veins, no forced interactions. Just the promise of solitary hours dedicated to painting, to the simple act of breathing without the weight of expectation, to existing solely on his own precarious terms. Yet, the large canvas next to his bed remained a stark, accusing blank. The smooth sticks of charcoal lay undisturbed in their glass jar, untouched since the frantic, messy sketches in the art club. He had spent hours staring at that pristine surface, willing his hand to move, to translate the chaos in his mind into something tangible, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. His thoughts were a relentless, deafening roar, a chaotic storm that refused to be silenced. And no matter how fiercely he tried to banish it, Yuuji’s voice, laced with a poignant mix of hurt and accusation, kept echoing in the hollow chambers of his mind.

“I never moved on.”

He dragged deeply on the cigarette, the familiar harshness of the smoke scratching at the back of his throat, but it offered no solace. The acrid cloud filled his lungs, a temporary distraction, but the relentless noise in his head persisted. The knot of tension that had taken root behind his ribs since that agonizing meeting in the art club with Yuuji and the suffocating panic in the cupboard still hadn't loosened its grip. He had a sinking feeling that it might never truly dissipate, a permanent resident in the landscape of his anxiety. He felt like a wire stretched to its breaking point, vibrating with a silent, agonizing tension, just waiting for the inevitable snap.

A soft, almost hesitant brush against his ankle startled him slightly. Yoru, his sleek black cat, weaved between his legs, her delicate body a silent question mark. She chirped softly, her tail curling around his calf like a comforting, furry anchor, as if she could sense the tempest raging beneath his carefully constructed exterior.

He sighed, the smoke catching in his throat, and glanced down at her in the dim light filtering from the apartment. “Not today, Yoru.” His voice was a low murmur, barely audible above the distant city hum, carrying a weight of weariness that belied his age.

And then, the fragile peace of the evening shattered. His phone, nestled deep in the pocket of his worn hoodie, erupted in a sharp, insistent vibration. He flinched, the sudden intrusion jolting him like an electric shock. His stomach twisted into a tight knot of apprehension, a primal warning bell ringing in his chest.

He pulled the phone out with his hand, the small screen illuminating his tense face. His breath caught in his throat, a sudden, painful constriction.

An unknown number.

His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic, almost panicked rhythm. No name flashed across the screen, no preview of a message. Just a stark, unfamiliar string of numbers he didn’t recognize, glowing ominously in the darkness. Immediately, every ingrained instinct, honed by years of fear and vigilance, screamed: Don’t answer it.

He never picked up unknown numbers. It was one of the cardinal rules he lived by, an invisible shield against a world he didn't trust. Too dangerous. Too risky. Too many ghosts and bad memories lurked behind numbers he couldn’t trace, identities he couldn't verify. For years, he’d trained himself to react without thinking – block, delete, move on. A swift, decisive severing of any potential threat.

But something stopped him tonight. Several possibilities flickered through his mind in that split second of hesitation. Maybe, he thought, maybe it was the university, something to do with his work or his scholarship, a fragile lifeline he desperately needed. Maybe it had something to do with the painting, a last-minute inquiry or update about his submission for the fair. Or perhaps it was something official from Tengen’s office, a bureaucratic necessity he couldn't ignore. And then, a thought, small and unexpected, wormed its way into the forefront of his mind, fueled by Yuuji's earlier, unwavering words: "I never moved on." What if… what if it was him? A foolish, almost desperate part of Sukuna, the part he tried so hard to keep locked away, dared to hope that against all odds, against all the silence of the past seven years, it could be Yuuji. Maybe, just maybe, his brother had somehow found a way to reach him. It was a long shot, a near impossible scenario, but the seed of hope, however improbable, took root in the fertile ground of his longing. Or maybe, he thought with a sudden, bone-deep weariness, he was just tired. Tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of the constant vigilance.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer icon, a silent battle raging within him between fear and a fragile, desperate hope. Then, with a sudden, almost reckless abandon, he pressed answer.

“Hello?” His voice was quiet, guarded, barely a whisper that seemed to get lost in the vastness of the night.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, a pregnant pause that stretched, taut and unsettling.

Then, a voice.

“Sukuna-sama…” Low. Calm. Precise. Measured. Familiar in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

His heart stopped. The distant city hum seemed to fade, the blood in his veins turned to ice.

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His vocal cords seemed to have seized, his throat suddenly dry and constricted.

The voice on the other end wasn’t distorted, no attempt to mask its identity. It wasn’t a mistake, a wrong number. He knew exactly who it was.

His whole body went instantly cold, a chilling wave washing over him from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet. His hand clenched so tightly around the phone that his knuckles ached before he even registered the pain. Then, instinct took over. He moved without conscious thought, his body reacting to the primal threat.

The cigarette between his fingers crumpled in his palm, the burning tobacco crushed flat against his skin, the hot embers scattering like tiny, angry sparks. He didn’t feel the heat, didn’t even register the stinging sensation. Just the raw, visceral shock of recognition, the icy grip of terror.

He shoved the sliding glass door open with a violent force, the glass rattling in its frame, and stumbled back inside the apartment, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Yoru, startled by his sudden, frantic action, darted out of the way with a frightened chirp, her sleek body a blur in the dim light. He slammed the balcony door shut, the lock clicking loudly in the sudden silence. Then, in one sharp, decisive movement, he yanked the thin curtains closed, plunging the living room into deeper shadow.

His breath came in ragged gasps now, each inhale shallow and panicked. His mind raced, a chaotic torrent of fear and adrenaline.

He locked the balcony door with trembling hands. Then he moved to the front door, his movements frantic and desperate. Deadbolt. Chain. Every lock clicked into place with a loud, echoing finality under his shaking fingers. Once, twice, three times he checked, his paranoia spiraling, needing the physical confirmation of the secured locks to momentarily quell the rising tide of panic.

The lights were still on, casting long, revealing shadows. Too bright. Too visible. An invitation. He turned them off, one by one, plunging the apartment into near total darkness – the kitchen, the living room, the hallway. The only remaining light was the tiny, persistent blink of the router in the corner of his bathroom.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the tremors running deep, vibrating through his entire being. The full force of the panic hit him all at once, a crushing weight on his chest, stealing his breath.

He stumbled blindly towards the bathroom, the only space in the apartment that felt like a true sanctuary, a place of enforced solitude. He slammed the door shut behind him, the lock clicking with a small, decisive sound. His legs gave way, and he slid down the cool, smooth tiles of the floor until his back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them in a futile attempt to contain the trembling that wracked his body.

Only then, in the relative safety of the darkened bathroom, did he look down at his hand and see the mangled remains of the cigarette – crushed flat against his palm, a dark stain of ash and tobacco clinging to his skin. He hadn’t even registered the burning heat, the stinging sensation on his flesh. His focus had been solely on the chilling voice, the return of the fear.

Yoru scratched gently at the door, a soft, worried meow filtering through the thin wood. She sounded anxious, sensing his distress.

“ ’m fine,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat, his voice breaking halfway through, betraying the lie.

He wasn’t fine. Not even close.

His whole body trembled uncontrollably, a violent shudder that ran deep to his core. A clammy, icy sweat slicked the back of his neck, and his teeth chattered despite the warmth of the night. His chest was tight again, but this time the pressure wasn’t from anger or stress, it was a primal, all-consuming fear. The kind that seeped in through every crack in his carefully constructed defenses and whispered insidious lies: You’re not safe. They’ve found you.

The fear he thought he’d finally escaped, the terror he’d spent years running from, had found him again.

Why now?

He had been so careful, meticulously building a new life, keeping his head down, avoiding attention. So, so careful.

Had showing his art done this? Had that small act of vulnerability, that brief moment of pride in his work, somehow exposed him?

Was it because someone saw his face at the campus? Was it because his fight with Yuuji? Had someone notice him?

Had he let himself be seen too much? Allowed a fragile tendril of hope to bloom, making him careless?

That tiny spark of joy he’d felt earlier, the rare, fragile warmth after his surprisingly positive meeting with Tengen, shattered into a million pieces, sharp and unforgiving. He’d allowed himself a taste of hope for the first time in years. Now, it was gone, ripped away by a single, chilling voice. And all that remained was the bitter, metallic taste of dread, curling low in his stomach like a slow-acting poison.

He closed his eyes, his teeth gritted so tightly his jaw ached.

Maybe I’m cursed, he thought with a sudden, bitter resignation. Maybe I was never meant to be happy. Maybe this is what I get for hoping.

His heart hammered in his ears, a frantic, deafening drumbeat against the silence of the apartment.

He didn’t cry out. He didn’t scream. He just sat there on the cold tile floor, his breathing ragged and uneven, his eyes locked on the impenetrable darkness even behind his closed lids.

He didn’t think he’d sleep tonight. The mere thought of closing his eyes and letting his guard down felt impossibly dangerous.

He didn’t think he’d leave the apartment tomorrow. The outside world suddenly felt hostile, full of unseen threats lurking around every corner.

He wasn’t even sure he could. The fear had taken root, paralyzing him.

From the hallway, muffled through the closed bathroom door, he could still hear the faint, insistent buzz of his phone vibrating against the hard tile floor. Again. And again. And again.

Someone was still calling him, relentlessly trying to break through his carefully constructed isolation.

But Sukuna didn’t move. He couldn’t. The fear had him trapped, frozen in place, a prisoner in his own mind.

-----------------

Sukuna didn’t know how long he’d been on the bathroom floor. His legs were numb. His spine ached from the cold tiles pressing into his back. His fingers—he could feel the sting now—were raw and red. Somewhere along the way, he’d started biting the edges of his nails, chewing past the skin until it bled. The skin around them was inflamed, tiny pinpricks of red against the pale of his skin. A dull throb pulsed in his right palm, a souvenir from the extinguished cigarette – a fragile blister already forming, a tender spot where the lingering warmth of the embers had turned to a dull ache. Cold had crept into his limbs sometime during the night—was it still night?—turning his fingers stiff and his spine sore from leaning against tile. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Maybe he hadn’t slept at all. Maybe he’d only blinked, lost time the way people do when they’re spiraling, when fear and memory and paranoia begin to eat at the seams of sanity. But he hadn’t moved. Not really. Sukuna had long since lost any sense of time.

Silence clung to the bathroom walls, thick and suffocating. It wasn't the comforting hush of peace, but a void that amplified the unwanted echoes in his mind – the sharp edges of memory, the insidious whispers of paranoia. His fingers were stiff and clumsy, his spine a solid block of pain. But he hadn't moved. Not truly. The only anchor in this stagnant existence was the sudden, frantic scrabbling at the bathroom door – sharp, insistent claws against the wood. Then, Yoru’s meows, rising in pitch and volume, a desperate plea that sliced through the heavy silence.

That single sound was a lifeline, dragging him back from the abyss.

Sukuna’s eyelids felt heavy, gritty, as if coated in dust. He blinked slowly, the movement stiff, like surfacing from murky water. His lips were cracked and dry, his mouth tasting of stale air and fear. A chorus of pops and clicks erupted from his joints as he laboriously shifted his weight, his muscles screaming in protest at their prolonged immobility. Pushing himself upright was an exercise in leaden inertia, each movement a monumental effort, like wrestling his own body from a shallow grave. The world swam for a dizzying moment, the edges of his vision blurring. His knees threatened to buckle as he finally managed to stand, his legs shaky and unreliable beneath him. He reached out with a trembling hand and fumbled with the lock on the bathroom door. The hinges groaned in protest as it yielded, and Yoru slipped through the narrow opening, a dark shadow weaving between his ankles, her tail held high like a fragile banner. She pressed her head against his calf, a silent, insistent nudge. Sukuna stepped out into the dimness of the apartment, his eyes struggling to adjust to the faint light filtering through the narrow gaps in the drawn curtains. The apartment was shrouded in a heavy twilight, neither night nor morning, the natural rhythm of the day completely lost.

He moved like a phantom through the familiar space, Yoru a constant presence at his side, her small body brushing against his shin with each hesitant step. His feet carried him, almost without conscious thought, towards the kitchen. He reached for her food bowl, his hands moving with a detached familiarity, a muscle memory honed by routine. He couldn't discern if it was time for breakfast or dinner, the concept of meals having dissolved into a meaningless cycle. The air in the apartment hung stale and heavy, thick with the scent of neglect and lingering fear. The walls seemed to have crept closer, pressing in on him, suffocating him with their silent accusation.

His gaze drifted towards the corner of the living room – a chaotic landscape of discarded belongings, a physical manifestation of his unraveling. And there, facedown beneath the table, lay his phone – a silent, inert object, a digital corpse. No insistent vibrations, no flashing notifications to pierce the suffocating silence. Was it yesterday that it had last pulsed with life? The question hung unanswered in the stagnant air. He stared at it, a knot of fear tightening in his chest, but he didn't move. To pick it up felt like an irreversible act.

If he charged it… what if it connected? What if someone tracked him? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through him. He couldn't risk it. Not now. Turning away, he walked towards his bedroom, his movements slow and deliberate, each step heavy with dread. He crawled under the covers, the familiar weight of the duvet offering a small, fragile sense of protection. Only his head remained visible above the layers of cotton and fleece, as if the sheer volume of fabric could somehow shield him from the unseen threats lurking beyond the apartment walls. The only sounds in the room were the gentle crunching of Yoru’s kibble and the faint, distant hum of the city, a muffled reminder of the world continuing outside his self-imposed isolation.

The room remained cloaked in darkness – the blinds stubbornly shut since that night. He loathed the dark, the way it amplified the shadows and allowed his anxieties to take on tangible form. Every instinct screamed at him to flick on a light, to banish the oppressive gloom and reassure himself that he was indeed alone. But the primal fear of being seen, of being found, held him captive. The curtains remained drawn, the lights stayed off, and the darkness swallowed him whole. He hated it, this suffocating blackness, but the thought of light, of exposure, was infinitely more terrifying. He pulled the covers higher, leaving only a narrow slit to draw breath, his gaze fixed on the blank canvas that stood on its easel, a mere arm’s length from his bed. His thoughts, trapped in a relentless loop, offered no solace.

Hours bled into one another, then days. The precise count slipped away, lost in the monotonous cycle of fear and inertia. He registered the subtle shifts in the light filtering through the curtains, the silent passage from morning to afternoon and back again, an endless, meaningless sequence. Yoru’s gentle taps on his cheek with a soft paw became his only reminders of time’s relentless march, her insistent meows a plea for sustenance. Each time she cried, he would rise, a marionette pulled by invisible strings, perform the necessary rituals – filling her bowl, gulping down a mouthful of cold water straight from the tap – and then retreat to his cavern of blankets, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his mind a relentless torrent of worst-case scenarios.

He shifted his head slightly on the pillow, his eyes fixed on the untouched canvas.

Still blank.

Still untouched.

His vision swam, a throbbing ache blossoming behind his eyes, tightening its grip with each passing moment. Was it hunger gnawing at his insides? The parched dryness of his throat? Or the persistent knot of dread that had taken root in his chest since that chilling phone call? He squeezed his eyes shut for a fleeting second, but the suffocating tendrils of panic tightened around his throat, forcing them open once more.

Sleep was an impossibility.

What if he dreamed?

What if those dreams morphed into vivid, unwelcome memories?

So he stared at the canvas instead, his fingers digging deeper into the worn fabric of the blanket, a desperate anchor in the swirling chaos of his mind.

He barely moved after that.

The days dissolved into a shapeless, gray blur, each indistinguishable from the last. Time ceased to hold any meaning, morning and night collapsing into a single, continuous state of heightened anxiety. He fed Yoru when her cries became too insistent to ignore, paced the confines of his apartment in stiff, hesitant circles when the oppressive stillness became unbearable, sometimes just to reassure himself that his limbs still obeyed his will. But food remained untouched on the counter, his body confined to the four walls of his self-made prison.

His phone remained off, a dark, silent slab beneath the table. He couldn't bear to know what waited on the other side of that blank screen.

And through it all, the echo of that voice resonated in the silence of his mind. He would never mistake it. The soft, clear cadence, the unexpected reverence. “Sukuna-sama,” they had said. Not Itadori, not Ryomen. Just that one name, laden with a significance that both comforted and terrified him in equal measure. This person had once been a fragile beacon of safety within the oppressive confines of the Ryomen estate. Not warmth, not exactly, but a steady, unwavering loyalty. They had shielded him, to the best of their ability, from the worst of the punishments, had offered a quiet, unspoken solace when others taunted or pried into his unwanted existence. They had called him Sukuna-sama even when the rest of the Ryomen clan, his own family, had dismissed him as nothing more than a mistake.

But that was over a year ago. This person had remained behind when Sukuna finally managed his desperate escape, a silent promise hanging in the air, a vow to protect him. Yet, in the end, they had still stayed. Had they been forced to? Had they made a calculated choice? Or had they betrayed him, their loyalty a carefully constructed facade? Were they still working for the Ryomen family, their soft words a subtle trap? Sukuna couldn’t know. Trust had become a dangerous luxury he could no longer afford. Not anymore. If they had found him… then it was only a matter of time before others did too. The thought was a constant, gnawing presence in the back of his mind.

On what he vaguely registered as the third day – or perhaps the fifth, the sequence had become a meaningless jumble – Sukuna finally sat up in bed, his gaze drawn, as if by an invisible cord, to the blank canvas.

He remained there for an eternity, it seemed. Hours, maybe. Simply breathing. Observing the pristine white surface, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. His hands rested on his lap, still tender from his earlier self-inflicted torment. The wrinkled sleeves of his hoodie were pulled down over his knuckles, concealing the small, angry cuts that crisscrossed his fingers. The silence in the apartment was a palpable weight, pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs.

Yoru slept soundly at the foot of the bed, a small, furry ball of warmth and oblivious peace. Her tail twitched occasionally in her sleep, a fleeting flicker of movement in the otherwise still room.

Then, without any discernible warning, a dam seemed to break within him. Sukuna slid off the bed, his knees hitting the floor with a soft thud as he knelt before the canvas. And he began to draw.

The first lines were hesitant, rough. He didn’t think, didn’t plan, didn’t even consider the image taking shape beneath his hand. His hand moved with a frantic urgency, jerky and desperate, driven by an unseen force. Something had cracked open in his chest, a raw, gaping wound from which a torrent of unspoken emotions began to spill forth, channeled through his fingertips onto the waiting canvas. His breath hitched in his throat, his heart pounding in his ears. His arm moved in short, violent strokes, each mark a release, a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that had taken root within him. Again. And again.

The charcoal, a dark, unforgiving medium, smeared across the canvas like congealed blood, black and raw and angry.

The sleeves of his hoodie absorbed the fine black dust, becoming increasingly grimy with each frantic movement. His hands darkened, the charcoal clinging to his skin, embedding itself in the small cuts around his bitten nails. A sharp pain shot up his wrist, a physical manifestation of his emotional turmoil, but he ignored it, his focus laser-sharp. His body swayed slightly, a consequence of exhaustion, hunger, and the ever-present weight of his fear, but he didn’t falter. He couldn’t stop.

It was as if an external force had seized control, his body a mere vessel for the outpouring of his inner chaos.

Everything he hadn’t said, every scream that had been trapped in his throat, every terror that had haunted his waking hours – it all poured onto the canvas, a visceral, desperate expression of his unraveling. And the longer he worked, the deeper he sank into the act of creation, the outside world fading into oblivion. No sounds registered, no coherent thoughts formed, even Yoru’s soft presence was forgotten. There was only the scratch and crackle of the charcoal against the coarse texture of the canvas, the ragged echo of his own breath, and the deep, gnawing ache in his chest that stubbornly refused to subside.

He lost all sense of time.

Minutes. Hours.

Perhaps even longer had passed in this self-imposed trance.

He didn’t register the growing ache in his knees, the stiffness in his back. He didn’t notice when the dark stains on his hands seemed to take on a deeper, more sinister hue than mere charcoal dust. He didn’t see Yoru watching him quietly from the hallway, her gaze a mixture of concern and bewilderment.

He didn’t care.

He just kept going, driven by a primal need to give form to the formless terror that had consumed him.

-------------

The charcoal dust swirled around him like a tangible cloud of his despair. His breath hitched and stuttered, each inhale a shallow, painful gasp. The relentless scratching of the charcoal against the canvas gradually softened, the furious energy behind his strokes beginning to wane. Lines became less jagged, finding a strange sort of resolution on the stark white surface. Colors, or the absence of them in shades of black and gray, bled into each other, forming a chaotic yet compelling whole. It was a portrait of his inner turmoil, a landscape of fear and isolation made visible.

Finally, his arm fell still, the stick of charcoal clattering onto the dusty floor. The silence that followed was different from the oppressive void of before. This silence held the weight of what had just been created, a tangible echo of his inner scream. Sukuna remained kneeling for a long moment, his body trembling with the aftermath of his frantic exertion. Every muscle ached, his head throbbed in protest, and a dull, persistent hunger gnawed at his stomach.

With a groan, he shifted, his legs protesting the sudden movement. He pushed himself back until he was sitting, leaning heavily against the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the canvas before him. It was done. The chaotic strokes had coalesced into a haunting image, a reflection of the fractured state of his mind. He saw the fear etched in every harsh line, the suffocating isolation captured in the heavy shadows. It was him, stripped bare and vulnerable, laid out for the unseen eyes that haunted his thoughts.

A strange sense of detachment washed over him as he stared at his creation. It was ugly, raw, and undeniably true. He had poured everything into it, every fear, every doubt, every flicker of paranoia. And now, looking at it, a sliver of the pressure in his chest seemed to ease. The act of creation, in its desperate intensity, had offered a temporary reprieve, a fleeting moment of release.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The exhaustion that had been a constant undercurrent finally surged forward, pulling him down. His gaze softened as he continued to stare at the painting, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness it represented. His head lolled to the side, his breath evening out. The grip he had held on consciousness finally loosened, and he slumped onto the floor beside the canvas, his body finally succumbing to the days of fear and sleepless nights. The last thing he saw, before the darkness claimed him completely, was the stark, unforgiving image he had brought into being.

-------------

The back courtyard of the campus was a sanctuary of quietude in the midday sun. The low, comforting whisper of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze was the only sound breaking the peace, punctuated by the distant, carefree echo of students’ laughter drifting from the bustling main lawn. Sunlight, filtered through the dense canopy of tall trees, painted the grassy area in shifting patterns of soft, speckled shade, dappling the long, weathered wooden benches that were scattered across the expanse. Satoru Gojo, a figure of effortless nonchalance, occupied one of these benches. His long, elegant legs were stretched out lazily in front of him, one foot occasionally tapping an absent rhythm against the grass. His head was tilted back at an almost languid angle, allowing the playful fingers of the breeze to tease the pristine edge of his white shirt.

His phone, a sleek black rectangle, rested on the flat plane of his stomach, vibrating intermittently with the silent pronouncements of notifications from the event committee group chat he had impulsively created for the upcoming campus anniversary. He hadn’t bothered to open it, much less reply to any of the incessant messages. Too much effort. Utterly boring. His only class for the day was a distant prospect in the late afternoon, and the thought of the stuffy confines of his apartment felt suffocating. At least here, in the relative anonymity of the courtyard, he could indulge in his favorite pastime of people-watching, perhaps even charm a few cute underclassmen with a dazzling smile and a well-placed compliment, and openly lament the agonizingly slow crawl of time while the majority of the student body were trapped in lectures.

But today, even these usually reliable sources of amusement offered no solace. A dull restlessness gnawed at him, a subtle unease that even flirting couldn’t quite dispel.

It had been a week. Seven full days, each marked by a growing, inexplicable irritation. And still… nothing. Not a single fleeting glimpse of dark hair, not even the faintest shadow, no tell-tale flash of a familiar hoodie. It was as if Sukuna had simply vanished into thin air. Even Yuuji, usually brimming with optimistic energy, was starting to show genuine concern, his brow furrowed with worry. Their mutual friends, who had initially embraced the mission to subtly nudge the estranged brothers back together with enthusiastic zeal, were now at a complete standstill, their carefully laid plans having crumbled before they even had a chance to be put into motion. Gojo had even tossed out a half-serious suggestion yesterday about enlisting the help of a private investigator, the absurdity of the idea only partially masking the genuine frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Yet, what truly grated on his nerves, far more than Sukuna’s infuriating disappearance, was the persistent, unwanted intrusion of the younger twin into his thoughts. It was irritating beyond measure. Why did that particular guy, with his perpetual scowl and dismissive attitude, bother him so damn much?

He mentally shook his head, trying to dislodge the unwelcome thoughts. Maybe it was pure, unadulterated dislike. Sukuna was undeniably rude, his words sharp and laced with a venomous edge, his entire being stubbornly closed off and hostile. Perhaps it was the unsettling, fleeting resemblance he sometimes caught, a shadow of Suguru in the way Sukuna carried himself, the same air of weary resignation that still haunted his memories. Or maybe… something else. A flicker of a different, more complex emotion stirred within him, a feeling he quickly suppressed, unwilling to examine it too closely. Gojo abruptly flicked his phone open, the bright screen momentarily blinding him.

He had just begun to type out a deliberately sarcastic reply to the group chat – a witty remark about someone volunteering to bring an excessive amount of elaborately decorated cupcakes to their next committee meeting – when a faint, hushed murmur of voices drifted through the quiet air, seemingly emanating from somewhere behind the dilapidated old supply shed that leaned against the far wall of the courtyard.

Gojo stilled, his fingers hovering over the digital keyboard. The sound was barely audible, a low, almost whispered conversation. It was cautious, furtive, as if the speakers were deliberately trying to avoid being overheard. 

Curious, and a little too nosy for his own good, he stood up, brushing invisible dust off his pants as he strolled toward the corner of the courtyard. There, partially hidden behind the old maintenance building, two figures stood close. One had their back to the wall, cornered, while the other stood close—too close—one arm planted against the wall beside the other’s head.

Gojo squinted.

The one being cornered was unfamiliar—someone thin, maybe a student, but not anyone he recognized. The other one, however... Oh. He knew that hoodie. 

He’d recognize that oversized, faded black hoodie anywhere. The way the sleeves were invariably pulled down too far, swallowing the wearer’s hands. The distinctive shape of the shoulders, slightly slumped, carrying the weight of some unseen burden. The hunched posture, a habitual stance that spoke of both defensiveness and a bone-deep weariness.

It was Sukuna.

A slow, almost predatory smirk curled at the corner of Gojo’s lips.

Speak of the devil, indeed.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he drawled, tilting his head to the side, his bright blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Sukuna-kun, you’ve been playing hide-and-seek, haven’t you? Yuuji’s been practically tearing the entire campus apart looking for you.”

At the unexpected sound of his voice, Sukuna’s head snapped around, his movements stiff and slow, like a marionette with tangled strings.

Gojo froze for a fraction of a second, his amusement momentarily evaporating.

Damn.

He looked worse than he had before. The last time he’d seen Sukuna, the boy had been a volatile storm of barely contained rage. Now… he looked utterly depleted.

Even with the hood pulled low, casting his face in shadow, and a black mask obscuring everything below his nose, the tell-tale signs of his distress were painfully obvious. His eyes, visible above the fabric, were rimmed with an angry red, and deep, bruised-looking circles hollowed the skin beneath them. His complexion was pale and drawn tight across his sharp cheekbones, giving him a gaunt appearance. His shoulders, usually held with a tense defensiveness, seemed thinner, more fragile. And his stare… there was none of the usual fiery defiance. Only a sharp, chilling coldness, a raw hatred that pierced through Gojo despite his usual imperviousness.

“Fuck off, Gojo,” Sukuna muttered, his voice hoarse and raspy, thick with a venomous undertone that sent a faint shiver down Gojo’s spine despite himself.

Gojo raised both hands in a gesture of mock surrender, a wide, disarming grin spreading across his face. “Oh, I’m honored—you know my name.”

Sukuna didn’t respond. He just turned on his heel and walked away, fast, his movements quick and almost jerky, the other person, who had been effectively pinning him, falling into step right behind him. Gojo watched them pass, his curiosity now fully engaged. The individual accompanying Sukuna didn’t project the aura of a friend. Their posture was rigid, their movements fiercely protective, almost possessive. Something in the intense glare they directed at Gojo as they walked by made the air in the courtyard feel suddenly colder, a prickling sensation on his skin.

Gojo laughed lightly and called after them. “Yuuji never mentioned you had a lover, Sukuna. Try not to treat them like you treat your brother, yeah? Disappearing without a word—kinda rude!”

Sukuna didn’t look back. But the person beside him did.

Their eyes burned with fury, locking onto Gojo like a threat.

For a fleeting second, a genuine, if quickly dismissed, doubt flickered through Gojo’s mind. Had he pushed too far this time? If looks could truly kill, he might have very well dropped dead on the spot, a victim of that silent, venomous gaze.

He stood alone again in the dappled sunlight, the gentle wind ruffling his silver hair, his hands still held slightly aloft in their earlier gesture of surrender. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered them. The smile remained on his lips, but something cold tugged behind his ribs. 

Gojo stayed standing for a moment longer, blinking into the empty space where Sukuna had just been. The sound of retreating footsteps faded, swallowed by the trees and distant voices of campus life continuing as if nothing had happened. But something inside him didn’t settle. His fingers twitched slightly in his pockets. That was weird. He laughed under his breath—soft and dry—and turned his face up toward the sky. The clouds were thin, the sun warm against his skin, and yet he felt strangely... off.

What was that?

He couldn’t quite name it. Was it irritation? No—he was used to people snapping at him. Was it curiosity? Possibly. Sukuna always had this way of making Gojo look twice. Like a puzzle he hadn’t decided if he wanted to solve or throw across the room. But it wasn’t just that.

Gojo shifted his stance, the soles of his shoes crunching softly against the gravel. He told himself it didn’t matter. Sukuna wasn’t his problem.

Yuuji wanted answers, sure. The whole group wanted to help. And Gojo had agreed to help too—more out of boredom and amusement than anything else, right? Right.

Still, his eyes lingered on the corner where they’d disappeared. His chest felt tight. Not painful, just... aware. Like some invisible thread had been tugged too hard and hadn’t quite snapped. He blew out a slow breath and muttered to himself, “Tch. You’re being dramatic.”

And yet, even as he flopped back down on the bench and reached for his phone again, the image of Sukuna’s masked face wouldn’t leave him. Neither would that stare. That silence.

Something was wrong.

Gojo didn’t know what it was—but he hated how much he suddenly wanted to.

--------------------

Chapter Text

—-----------------------

The café sat at the edge of a narrow street just a few blocks from the university. It was the kind of place people passed without noticing—tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookshop, with sun-faded signage and windows that always seemed slightly fogged. Inside, it was quiet. The dim lighting gave the illusion of early evening even though it was barely past noon.

Only three other customers occupied the space—one hunched over a laptop, another flipping through a worn paperback, and the third half-asleep with earbuds in, lost to the world. A single bartender moved slowly behind the bar, polishing glasses without hurry. A young server floated between tables, wiping them down, unnoticed. It was quiet, calm—perfectly forgettable.

At the furthest corner, nearly swallowed by the shadowed walls, Sukuna sat with his back to the entrance. He’d chosen the table himself, scanning the room before settling on the most hidden spot. His hoodie was up again, hair slightly damp from the quick shower he took that morning after almost a week of staying in. His fingers tugged at the edge of his sleeves, restless. His eyes never stayed in one place for long.

Across from him, as still as ice and just as composed, sat the person who had haunted his thoughts for the past week.

Uraume.

He sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in his lap, his presence controlled and elegant. His hair was snow-white, wispy strands tucked behind his ears. his outfit was immaculate—a slim black turtleneck tucked into pale, tailored trousers, everything spotless, creased to perfection. The air around them carried a strange gravity, quiet but impossible to ignore. Like the eye of a storm dressed as a bodyguard.

Uraume had always been like that.

He’d been assigned to Sukuna not long after he was forced to move into the Ryoumen estate. At first, Sukuna had assumed Uraume was another pair of eyes—another leash disguised as protection. But Uraume had never acted like the others. Never raised a voice, never betrayed him. Silent, sharp, and loyal. He remembered Uraume standing in the hallway outside his bedroom when he was sixteen, rain pouring behind the windows, watching as he sobbed into a sketchbook. Uraume never said a word. Just stayed. He hated that he remembered that.

Sukuna’s fingers tapped once against the table, then stopped.

His heart had barely settled since Uraume called him a week ago. And now, seated in front of him, he looked like nothing had changed—like he’d simply picked up where they left off. As if Sukuna hadn’t spent days panicking that he was being dragged back.

Uraume said nothing at first. Instead, he waited patiently as the server brought over their order—two items, placed gently on the table: a tall chocolate milkshake with thick whipped cream on top and a slice of blueberry cheesecake. Sukuna didn’t look at them, but he tensed. He didn’t remember telling Uraume these were his favorites. Maybe he never needed to.

Uraume didn’t touch the food. He looked at Sukuna quietly, eyes unreadable.

“You hurt yourself,” Uraume said at last, calmly staring at Sukuna’s dark circle and the bandage around his right palm. 

Sukuna’s shoulders twitched, his fingers curling inwards. He looked pale. His lips were dry. His eyes rimmed red, the skin under them darker than usual. His posture was caved in slightly, like something in him had folded.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, voice rough.

Sukuna didn’t want small talk. He didn’t want pity, or nostalgia, or whatever this moment was supposed to be. His phone was full of missed messages—some from his professors, one from Principal Tengen, even more from the campus attendance system warning him he’d already been marked absent all week. Yaga had emailed asking for a meeting. Sukuna didn’t have time for this. He had too much to be afraid of.

He lifted his gaze to Uraume’s and said, flat and clipped, “Speak.”

Uraume inclined his head slightly, respectful. “I apologize for contacting you the way I did. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

“I didn’t know if you would pick up. I wasn’t even sure if it’s your number,” Uraume continued. “But I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to see you.”

His voice remained steady, but there was something in it—something close to... sincerity.

“I left the Ryoumen estate a few months after you disappeared,” he said softly. “I refused further assignments. I was no longer under Daimyo’s command. After that, I started looking for you.”

Still, Sukuna didn’t answer. His fingers gripped the edge of the table. His silence said: go on.

“It wasn’t easy,” Uraume continued. “You were good at hiding. Your grandmother tried to find you too, but she failed. Three months after your escape, a major crisis struck the company’s branch in America. She had to leave Japan. Most of her Sokkin went with her. That… gave me room to move.”

Sukuna blinked slowly. So she was gone. For now.

“I stayed hidden,” Uraume said. “Tracked you as best I could. When I confirmed your location, I stayed away. I needed to be sure it was safe. That she wouldn’t find you again. But now, after almost a year... she still hasn’t returned. Which is why I’m here now.”

A long pause followed. The milkshake sat untouched between them. Sukuna dropped his gaze, letting that sink in. His fingers tapped silently against the edge of the table.

“Safe,” he echoed. “Is anything really safe?”

“I’ll make sure it is,” Uraume replied smoothly. “I don’t want to drag you back,” Uraume added. “I just want to stand by your side again. If you’ll allow it.”

Sukuna huffed a bitter laugh under his breath. “No, I will not allow it. You’re not my guard anymore,” he said. “You left the household. I left the family. This—” he gestured vaguely, “—whatever loyalty you think you still have… it doesn’t mean anything now.”

“I disagree,” Uraume said softly.

Sukuna leaned back, pressing a palm to his aching forehead. “I don’t need anyone. Especially not now. I can’t pay you. You can’t guarantee we won’t get caught either.”

“I’m sorry Sukuna-sama, but it’s too late. I’ve enrolled at the university. My cover is clean, I promise. I’ll keep my distance when needed, but I want to protect you again.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?! You enrolled at the university!?” Sukuna’s eyes blazing, chest heaving like he couldn’t contain the storm inside. The low murmur of conversation around them faltered. A woman near the counter looked up from her book. The barista paused mid-pour. Even the faint clinking of silverware seemed to go still.

For a moment, the entire café turned to look. And that was all it took. Sukuna blinked—snapped out of it. Without saying a word, he sat back down—too fast, too rigid. His eyes dropped to the untouched milkshake between them. The heat in his face was not from anger anymore. With a bitter scoff under his breath, he muttered, “Why?”

Uraume blinked once. “Why… what?”

“Why go this far? Why are you still trying to follow me? You don’t owe me anything.”

“Because this is what I was born for,” Uraume said. “Sukuna-sama, you know how long my family has served the Ryoumen line for generations—since before even your grandfather led the clan. We were trained not just to protect, but to choose who to protect.”

His voice lowered. “And I chose you.”

Sukuna frowned.

“After your grandfather died, everything changed. Your grandmother turned the household into something colder. Crueler. People feared her, but they didn’t respect her. I watched how she treated you. How she treated her own people.” Uraume met his eyes again.

“You were the only one who still reminded me of what the Ryoumen legacy should have been. Not tyranny. Not obedience. But power with principle. You’re the only one I’ve ever thought was worth following.” Uraume's voice remained soft. Controlled. But his eyes burned—not with pity, not even with sadness, but with something like belief . A belief that had once terrified Sukuna because it demanded something of him.

Sukuna didn’t know what to say. He wanted to laugh—sharp and bitter—but it stayed locked in his throat, trapped behind the tightness in his chest. Because deep down, he didn’t believe a word of it.

Power? If he had any, he would’ve used it to never end up in that house in the first place. He would’ve fought back. Principle? What kind of person with principle runs away and hides like a rat in the dark? Who wakes up afraid of shadows and telephones and memories? And, worth following? No. No, Sukuna knew exactly what he was. A broken thing that kept walking forward because stopping hurt more.

He didn’t meet Uraume’s eyes. Didn’t say anything. Just let them sit there across from him, loyal for reasons he couldn’t understand—and definitely didn’t deserve.

And then the exhaustion hit him again, suddenly and completely. His headache was pulsing behind his temples. He remembered the unopened emails from professor Yaga, the overdue assignments, the unfinished painting still sitting like a threat in his apartment. Sukuna sighed, rubbing a hand over his face again. He didn’t have the strength to fight this. Not today. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Do what you want. If we get caught, I swear I'll kill you.”

“Understood.”

“I’m not kidding, Uraume. Don’t get me caught.” 

“I won’t let that happen,” Uraume said, calm and certain. “You have my word.” He looked at the food on the table, “And eat your food, Sukuna-sama. You’re pale. You need your energy to live your new life.”

Sukuna scoffed but didn’t argue. He finally picked up the fork and dragged it through the blueberry cheesecake, bringing the bite slowly to his mouth. Sweet. Sour. Cold. He closed his eyes briefly as it melted on his tongue.

Across the table, Uraume sat in still silence, watching over him.

For the first time in months, Sukuna felt… less alone. Not safe. Not happy. Not even remotely fine. But the rope around his ribs had loosened a little. Despite the pounding in his head and the swirl of frustration still lodged in his chest, Sukuna couldn’t deny the wave of relief that washed over him. His grandmother wasn’t here. She hadn’t been for over a year. The woman who haunted his nightmares, who held his leash with invisible strings, was half a world away. That knowledge—brought by Uraume, as sudden and annoying as his arrival had been—let Sukuna breathe. Just a little.

The tight grip around his ribs loosened. The weight behind his eyes lightened. Even if everything else still felt like a mess—Yuuji and his friends, the classes, the painting, the constant, gnawing fear—at least he didn’t have to worry about being dragged back into that house by his grandmother anytime soon. Not today.

Hearing that his grandmother hadn’t returned, that the trusted core of her power was far from Tokyo, made him feel safer than he had in months. But still part of him itched with suspicion. What could be happening in the American branch of the Ryoumen family business that kept her away this long? How bad did it have to be for her to stay gone? He didn’t know. And right now, he didn’t want to. Whatever the answer was, it had bought him time—and he intended to use it.

He looked at the wall clock on the wall. He had twenty-five minutes to get to Yaga’s class.

—-----------------

Professor Yaga, in his usual fashion, hadn’t shown up on time. It was already ten minutes past the scheduled start, and half the class had stopped pretending to study. Conversations buzzed louder, —rustling bags, half-hearted conversation, the occasional thud of a chair being dragged out, a few students laughed near the windows, and someone in the corner had even started playing a game on their phones with the sound off. 

The morning light slanted lazily through the high windows of the lecture hall, catching dust motes in its golden beams. Toward the very back of the class, Yuuji and Megumi sat side by side, tucked into a quiet corner near the windows. Their seats gave them a near-clear view of the row ahead, and also some distance from the professor’s usual pacing path at the front—perfect for staying out of sight. 

Yuuji leaned forward, elbows on his desk, chin in his hand. “It’s been a week,” he muttered to Megumi, voice barely above the hum of the room. “Still no sign of him.”

Beside Yuuji, Megumi quietly clicked his pen open and shut, his presence calm but attentive, he glanced over, his gaze steady and knowing.

Another sigh escaping Yuuji’s lips. “It’s like he vanished again.” 

Just then, his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a notification from the group chat. Yuuji sighed. He'd already tried asking them to change the group name—at least five times. It felt… wrong, like they were plotting behind Sukuna’s back. But Satoru had waved it off every time. In his usual infuriatingly persistent way, had vetoed every suggestion, claiming Sukuna wouldn't see it anyway. After numerous attempts and subsequent reverts to the original name by Satoru, Yuji had finally surrendered to his older friend’s brand of chaotic annoyance.

The notification was from Satoru.

Satoru: Guys~ I saw Sukuna behind the old maintenance building 👀 like an hour ago? Looking rough and fighting with his boyfriend? they were suuuper close n snappy lol

Yuji’s fingers were just about to fly across the keyboard to ask a million questions when he saw someone walk into the classroom. Sukuna. 

He was here. Real. Standing. Breathing. Right there.

Seriously, his brother was walking through the door. A huge wave of relief just crashed over Yuji, making him almost smile. Almost because Sukuna totally didn’t see him. His eyes were glued to some dude walking right behind him, and this guy had this really intense, almost creepy vibe, like he was Sukuna’s shadow or something. They looked like they were having some silent argument, Sukuna’s shoulders all tense and his face looking super annoyed.

The guy—tall and pale, with platinum-blonde hair cropped just above the jawline— trailing behind Sukuna was someone unfamiliar. His posture was straight and precise, his expression unreadable. He wore a slim black turtleneck tucked into pale, tailored trouser with a soft dark gray cardigan, which hung loose off his shoulders and matched his almost clinical, unbothered presence.

And his brother didn’t even glance around the room. His hoodie was pulled up, a black mask covering the lower half of his face, and he seemed more focused on grumbling at the person behind him than noticing where he was. The two made their way to a pair of desks one row ahead and slightly to the right of Yuuji and Megumi’s seats— close enough that Yuuji could hear what they’re talking about.

Yuji and Megumi just looked at each other, their eyebrows practically touching their hairlines, but they kept quiet, trying to catch what Sukuna and his weird follower— or maybe his boyfriend— were saying. The classroom was pretty noisy with everyone chatting.

Yuji had to really strain his ears to hear anything over the classroom buzz. He caught Sukuna muttering something under his breath, his voice tight with annoyance: “Keep my distance my ass.” The guy next to him, though, acted like he didn’t even hear him. He just calmly pulled out his notebooks, all organized and stuff, totally ignoring Sukuna’s obvious irritation.

Sukuna kept going, his voice low and sharp, “Are you seriously gonna do this, Uraume? Take all the same classes?” The guy – Uraume, apparently – didn’t even look at Sukuna. He just held up this small, sleek recording device between his fingers. “You gonna write notes yourself, or should I just record the lecture for you?” Their eyes met for like, two seconds, and Yuuji could feel this weird tension even from behind them. 

Then, a tiny little smirk, almost like a mean smile, touched the corner of Sukuna’s lips. “You’re completely insane.” He said, but it wasn't really angry, more like… resigned? He just kind of tossed his pen onto the little bit of desk space Uraume had claimed next to his own perfectly organized stuff, then leaned back in his chair, though he kept muttering under his breath. 

Yuji could still catch bits of it: “Should’ve seen this coming…” 

And again something like: “How could I be so dumb? So easily tricked…” and again “..course you’d pull this.” And the last one was: “And don’t you dare call me that weird name again. Just…my normal name. Got it?”

“Understood, Sukuna.” Uraume answered in that same flat, mechanical tone—as if the name tasted foreign in his mouth. Like it was forced, unnatural. Like he hated using it.

Yuuji couldn’t stop watching. For the first time in so long, Sukuna looked… familiar. The way he grumbled, the way he slouched slightly with that tired smirk—it was like watching a memory reawaken. The ghost of his twin brother was sitting in front of him, alive and pissed off and oddly comforting. And a big wave of relief mixed with this super strong curiosity hit Yuji. Who was this Uraume guy? Was Satoru right? Was he Sukuna’s boyfriend? They looked close. Maybe too close. 

What the heck had happened to Sukuna in the last seven years? What kind of person had his twin become? Did he still hate all sweet stuff except for chocolate milkshakes? Was blueberry cheesecake still the only dessert he could eat? The familiar, sharp ache in Yuuji's chest returned, not just because Sukuna was here again and close enough to reach out to, but because he still didn’t know anything.

His gaze flickered over to Uraume, who suddenly turned his head a little, his eyes, this really sharp, almost silver color, flicking towards Yuji for a quick, intense look before turning back to his stuff, all focused on that little recording device on the desk. Why would they even need a recorder for class?

Yuuji tried not to overthink it.

Finally, the classroom door creaked open, and Professor Yaga walked in, his usual grumpy face looking a little less scary than usual. The class got quiet, and he started talking about whatever economic theory they were supposed to be learning. Yuji tried his best to pay attention, but his eyes just kept wandering to Sukuna and Uraume in front of him. Megumi, being the good boyfriend he was, seemed to get it and started scribbling down notes for Yuji as his gaze stayed glued to the pair. 

Uraume too, was scribbling away like crazy, his pen moving super fast across the page, every now and then glancing down at that little recording device on the corner of their shared desk. Sukuna, on the other hand, was mostly just sitting there, his head doing this little bob every few seconds like he was fighting off sleep. After a few minutes of this losing battle, he just gave up and leaned his head heavily on Uraume’s shoulder. Uraume didn’t even flinch, just kept writing.

A little while later, the door creaked open again , and in walks Satoru. Seriously, who knows where that guy comes from? He’s always late. 

Professor Yaga gave him the usual annoyed look and a quick lecture, which Satoru just brushed off with his usual charming apology before spotting the empty seats way in the back, right next to Megumi. He plopped down, his bright blue eyes immediately zeroing in on the two guys a row ahead. Sukuna and… his partner —the one Satoru assumed was the mysterious boyfriend Sukuna had been arguing with behind the campus warehouse.

Just like Yuuji, Satoru’s attention on the lecture also went out the window, completely fixed on Sukuna who was practically asleep on Uraume’s shoulder.

And Sukuna couldn't even sleep still. He kept shifting around, and now he’d slid down in his chair and was lying his head down on the desk, using his hand as a pillow. His black hoodie had fallen back a bit, showing his messy, dark hair. His face was now turned to his left, facing Uraume, so Satoru had a clear view of his profile. 

Asleep, Sukuna looked surprisingly calm, all the usual frowns gone from his face. Even with the dark circles under his eyes and his pale skin, plus the messy hair, Sukuna looked… kinda cute. It was a weird thought that made Satoru’s brain stutter for a second. He suddenly had this weird urge to… protect him? Protect Sukuna? What the actual hell? Satoru was completely thrown by this unexpected feeling.

Then, something even weirder happened. Uraume, without a word or even looking at Sukuna, smoothly took off his long oversized, charcoal gray cardigan and gently draped it over Sukuna’s sleeping form. Then, super carefully, he reached out and pulled down Sukuna’s black face mask, like he wanted to make sure Sukuna could breathe okay while he was sleeping. Sukuna mumbled something in his sleep, a little pout forming on his lips, but he didn’t actually wake up. The tiny pout was unexpectedly adorable, and Satoru’s jaw almost dropped. Why was he suddenly so… captivated by Sukuna?

Satoru’s eyes locked on the scene, pulse ticking in his throat like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He didn’t mean to care. He told himself he didn’t . And yet, watching someone tend to Sukuna so gently—like he knew all his fragile edges and exactly where to place the balm—made something flare hot under Satoru’s skin. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get why seeing Sukuna like this made something hot twist under his ribs. Why he wanted to walk up there and pull him away. Why his skin crawled with something he refused to name.

He didn’t like Sukuna. Sukuna was rude, defensive, annoying. He left Yuuji. He didn’t like him. Right?

Meanwhile, Yuji had been watching the whole thing too, and couldn't tear his eyes away. He knew Sukuna didn’t sleep easily. He never had. So to see him now, slouched forward on the desk, hoodie bunched around his neck, cardigan draped carefully over his back, breathing soft and slow as if for once, his body had let go of tension— that meant something.

Whoever this person was sitting beside him, Sukuna trusted him.

Yuuji didn’t know the details. He didn’t know the dynamic, or what kind of relationship the two shared. But watching Sukuna like this, vulnerable and unguarded in public—he couldn’t pretend the sight didn’t affect him. And while the thought sent a dull throb of jealousy through Yuuji’s chest, he also felt a flicker of relief.

Maybe they weren’t close anymore. Maybe Sukuna still refused to let him in. But that didn’t mean he wanted him to suffer. Far from it.

Even if Sukuna had shut him out, even if things between them had cracked and bled and rotted for seven long years—Yuuji still wanted him safe.

—-----------------

The classroom lights hummed low as the last minutes of the lecture dragged on. Most of the students had already given up pretending to pay attention, a collective slump had overtaken, their earlier attempts at attentiveness dissolving like sugar in water. Two solid hours of gravelly pronouncements on economic theory and the surprisingly resilient post-war market had leached away their focus, leaving behind a glazed-over apathy.

Earlier, before the class had ended and the room began to empty, Yaga had done a routine call for students he hadn't yet marked as present. His tone was clipped, barely disguising the weariness that came with long weeks of overcrowded rosters and unfamiliar names. When he called Ryoumen Sukuna , no one responded. No one moved. No hand lifted. No voice spoke up.

Yaga paused, then repeated the name—this time sharper, louder, more pointed—asking aloud whether Ryoumen Sukuna was even present in the class at all.

Still, silence.

It wasn’t until the third call that someone finally shifted in the back row. The silver-haired student—Uraume, if he recalled correctly from the file—raised his head and answered on Sukuna’s behalf. Whatever explanation he gave seemed rehearsed, clinical.

Yaga didn’t entertain it. He didn’t care if Sukuna was asleep, sick, or sulking.

And Sukuna had been slumped over his desk, head pillowed on one folded forearm. From a distance, he could’ve passed for asleep—eyes shut, jaw slack, breaths steady, his dark hair spilled messily across the worn wooden desk, strands catching in the light from the overhead fluorescents. The room was quiet, the lesson long since dissolved into background noise. Most of the students were packing up in that lazy end-of-period rhythm.

At the front of the room, Yaga had been watching. His dark lenses did little to hide the way his gaze narrowed slightly, jaw tightening as his patience thinned. The click of his tongue cut through the silence. A muscle twitched in Yaga’s brow, the subtle movement betraying the frayed edges of his notoriously thin patience. “Then both of you..” He pointed at Uraume and Sukuna “—up front. Now. And Satoru— you stay behind, too.” The command hung in the air, leaving no room for argument.

From the back row, Satoru groaned dramatically as if this were the greatest injustice of his life. But he stood anyway, slinging his bag over one shoulder and offering an exaggerated wink to Yuuji and Megumi as he passed.

Sukuna stirred when Uraume nudged his arm, with a slow, disoriented blink—less a protest, more a quiet, stunned realization. His brows furrowed faintly, not out of irritation, but confusion. As if his own body had betrayed him. The moment dragged as he lifted his head, eyes still heavy, blinking against the classroom light. A muted breath escaped him, half a sigh, half a question—he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, much less that deeply. Rubbing his eyes roughly with the heel of his hand, he finally pushed himself to a slouching stand. Uraume moved in his wake, a shadow both loyal and unsettlingly graceful, keeping exactly one pace behind.

The soft click of the door latch echoed as the last student disappeared, leaving an unnerving quiet in the room. Yuuji and Megumi lingered outside the door, hovering with worry but careful not to be noticed by the professor's already strained attention. Only then did Yaga finally sink into his worn leather chair, the springs groaning slightly under his weight. He steepled his hands on the cluttered surface of the desk, his gaze sharp and assessing. 

The three remained standing—Sukuna in the middle, sandwiched between Uraume and Satoru. Satoru, much taller than both of them, looked like he didn’t take any of this seriously. Uraume stood stiffly, arms behind his back. Sukuna just looked tired.

Yaga folded his arms across his chest, eyes settling sharply on Sukuna first. “Well,” he began, voice low but tight, “you’ve ditched my class these two weeks. Ignored two of my emails. And today, you had the nerve to fall asleep in the middle of a lecture.”

Sukuna didn’t respond. He stood there, shoulders slouched, eyes dull and unfazed.

“You’re to write the full lecture notes from two weeks ago until today,” Yaga continued, not waiting for an answer. “By hand. Due tomorrow.”

Sukuna blinked slowly, jaw tightening—but he gave a small nod. “Understood, Sir.”

He already knew it would be hell. His handwriting was shit and his brain didn’t exactly like letters the way it was supposed to. The words tended to float and twist, but whatever. He’d get through it somehow.

“He’s sick,” Uraume interjected calmly from beside him, stepping slightly forward. Bodyguard mode on.

Sukuna’s heel subtly shifted sideways and stomped—not hard, but deliberate—right on Uraume’s foot. Uraume didn’t flinch, only gave him a quick glance.

Yaga raised an eyebrow at both of them. “You’re new, aren’t you?” he asked Uraume. “I haven’t seen you in any class before.”

“Yes, sir,” Uraume said.

“Then congratulations. You get the same punishment for mouthing off.” He turned back to his desk. “Notes. Full lecture. Tomorrow. Welcome to class.”

Sukuna couldn’t help it—he snorted.

It was barely a laugh, more of a scoff, but it was the first sign of amusement anyone had seen from him in days. His lip curled, one corner lifted, and he dropped his gaze like he was trying not to grin too obviously.

Satoru, who’d been standing silently with his hands in his pockets, glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

It was small, but noticeable. The way Sukuna’s shoulders dropped just a little. The faint crease in his brow smoothed. His face wasn’t sharp and coiled for once. He looked… calm.

Still tired, still pale, hair slightly messed up from his nap— It sparked something impulsive in Satoru, a flicker of something dumb like I kinda wanna ruffle his hair.

Satoru blinked, caught off guard by his own intrusive thoughts.

What the hell is wrong with me?

As if summoned, Sukuna turned his head. Eyes met Satoru’s.

And just like that, the calm vanished. The smirk faded. His face twisted back into that all-too-familiar scowl. Brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line, stare sharp as broken glass, met Satoru’s bright blue ones.

Satoru grinned wider and gave him a playful wave.

Yaga cleared his throat, annoyed. “Satoru. Are you even listening?”

“Yup,” Satoru chirped, finally turning to him.

From what he caught, Yaga had shifted the topic. “—You’re off the hook for the class project. I got the update from Principal Tengen. Your grades will be based on your performance organizing the university anniversary event. Don’t screw it up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Satoru replied breezily.

“And you two—” Yaga gestured at Sukuna and Uraume. “You’re still responsible for your class project. If you have questions, ask Satoru here. I already explained two weeks ago and I’m not repeating myself.”

Sukuna’s face darkened again, clearly not thrilled by the implication that he’d have to rely on Gojo Satoru of all people. Uraume’s posture stiffened slightly, eyes flicking toward Gojo with quiet calculation. Yaga, clearly done, began gathering the mess of papers on his desk. “That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

Satoru had just opened his mouth to say “Thank you, sensei” , the polite dismissal already halfway out—when an idea struck him.

A devilish one.

“Oh, wait!” he called, raising a hand as Yaga reached the door, already halfway through stacking his papers.

Yaga stopped. Turned slowly. His expression said I regret everything.

“What now , Satoru?”

Satoru tilted his head, all innocent charm. “I was just thinking, since we’re still short on committee members for the anniversary event—how about these two join us?”

At once, Sukuna stopped in his tracks. Then turned. So did Uraume.

Sukuna’s eyes blazed like someone had just slapped him. His whole body shifted forward, like he might actually lunge at Gojo.

Satoru, naturally, looked delighted.

“I mean,” he went on, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “wouldn’t it be fun to have some first-year perspectives on the team? You know, fresh ideas and all. Maybe someone who’s good with paint and knives.” His gaze deliberately dropped to Sukuna’s right hand, the bandages around his palm fraying at the edges, his fingertips red and raw. Sukuna noticed the glance, and his hands immediately clenched at his sides.

Yaga rubbed his temples, clearly regretting not taking early retirement. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. “Fine. Do what you want. Just make sure Principal Tengen signs off on it. This counts toward your final grade.”

“Oh, that’s covered,” Satoru replied brightly. “Principal Tengen already handed me full authority. So we’re good.”

Sukuna inhaled sharply, already stepping forward to object—but Yaga had had enough. He walked right out of the classroom, shutting the door behind him with a thud. Leaving the three of them alone.

Satoru turned to face them with the smug satisfaction of someone who had just dropped a bomb and survived the explosion. He looked positively radiant with mischief, hands in his pockets, a spring in his step. “Welcome to the team,” he said cheerfully.

A thick silence settled in the room.

Sukuna stepped forward, jaw clenched, voice low and sharp. "What do you want, Gojo?" His eyes burned, and his body language screamed one wrong word away from a punch to the face. Uraume stood silently at his side, one step behind but unmistakably ready—eyes cold, posture tense, like he'd leap in without hesitation if Sukuna gave the word.

Satoru, unfazed, shrugged. "Oh, nothing, Ryoumen." His tone was light, almost teasing. "Just thought it’d be fun to be on a team together. Yuuji’s on board, too. Don’t run away again, okay?" The last words were delivered with a casual cruelty, designed to twist the knife.

Sukuna’s eyes blazed. "Oh, so now the great Gojo's heir is playing guard dog for Itadori’s heir? Didn’t think a Gojo were the type to roll over for someone like that. How fitting."

Damn. That touched a nerve. Satoru’s easy smile slipped, replaced by something colder, something dangerous that tightened his eyes.

“Oh no,” Satoru said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge. "We’re just friends. You know what that is, right? Or did you never have any?"

Uraume stiffened beside Sukuna. "Careful, Gojo."

Satoru blinked. And then, like a switch, his grin widened. “Now, that’s interesting. You both know my name like it’s personal.“

He paused, letting the implication hang in the heavy air. Silence stretched, taut and charged.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching both of them, his usual playful tone gone, “I don’t recall introducing myself to either of you. And what's with this obsession with family names— I didn’t think you were that type, Ryoumen. Especially considering your brother isn’t.”

Sukuna stepped forward, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled, his eyes blazing with a fury barely contained, simmering just beneath the surface. “Spare me the ego, Gojo. I never gave you my name either. And I don’t give a damn who you are—so back off and stay out of my life.” His voice was low, seething—each word laced with venom, a raw, cutting edge.

Satoru’s grin only widened, the glint in his eyes sharpening like he was savoring the tension. A chilling, almost delighted expression—sharpened—as if he were savoring every flicker of rage in Sukuna’s voice. He looked almost thrilled, like Sukuna’s anger was exactly what he’d been trying to provoke all along. He tilted his head slightly, admiring the fire in Sukuna’s voice. “Well,” he drawled, hands slipping into his pockets, “I heard yours from Yuuji. Got a few extra details from Tengen too. You know, bits and pieces.”

Satoru’s eyes glinted with a sharper curiosity, and decided to add fuel to the fire, "I mean, sure— I know I’m kind of a big deal. But I doubt either of you were paying that much attention to me personally or asking people about me.” His gaze flicked briefly between Sukuna and Uraume. “And it’s not like you heard about me from Yuuji either, right Ryoumen? You two haven’t seen each other in what—seven years?”

There was a beat of silence. Satoru’s grin sharpened. “So I can’t help but wonder... Why? Hm? Ryoumen Sukuna? Why did Gojo and Itadori being friends bother you so much? Why did our family names matter to you?” 

Another stepped forward, Sukuna, voice low but venomous, every syllable laced with contempt. “And why you , Gojo Satoru?” he bit out. “Why does my existence bother you so damn much? Couldn’t leave me alone the second you laid eyes on me?” His jaw tightened. The air between them was electric, suffocating. Even Uraume had gone still beside him. “Is it because of your friend ? That what you call it?” Sukuna’s lip curled, disgust dripping from the word. “You meddle in other people’s lives just to play savior? To fix something that was never yours to begin with? What a joke.” The insult was hurled like a poisoned dart. 

Their eyes locked. Fire meeting frost. Neither willing to look away. Neither backing down.

Satoru tilted his head again, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “Oh, absolutely,” he said smoothly. “Why? That foreign to you?” His gaze swept over Sukuna, unblinking. “No one’s ever tried to play savior for you? No one ever tried to fix something for your sake?” He clicked his tongue, mock sympathy dancing in his voice. “That’s rough, Ryoumen. Must be lonely, huh?” A deliberate beat of silence. “What a pity.”

Gojo Satoru didn’t smile this time. He clicked his tongue. When there’s no response, he continued, “You know, it didn’t make sense at first—Ryoumen instead of Itadori. But then I asked Yuuji about it. He told me enough.” He looked back to Sukuna now, sharp, unrelenting. Provoking. Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but the room felt different. He wasn’t just irritated anymore. Something inside him had just tightened.

Satoru smiled wider, sensing it. “So now tell me, Ryoumen, why did you leave? What is it you’re hiding? You and your little guard dog here—Oh! Sorry! Are you his boyfriend?” Uraume’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt. “—because you seem awfully close for a master and a guard dog. Or is that not the dynamic anymore?” He took a step closer, voice quieter now. He glanced between Uraume and Sukuna, “Or is it that clan names mean more to you than people ever did? More than your own brother?” The words were a calculated strike, designed to wound.

Another beat, and, “I don’t have a brother.” Sukuna’s voice came out tight — low and brittle like glass under pressure, barely holding together. His body was tense, like a pulled wire. His jaw locked as he said it, and for a moment, something flickered in his throat, like he had to force the words out past something sharp. His fingers curled tight at his sides, knuckles paling, nails biting into his palms through the rough, half-undone bandages.

Sukuna’s eyes didn’t waver, but they burned — with something raw, furious, and unspoken. “I don’t need one. And I never did” Another beat, it seemed like saying it took so much effort—like dragging something heavy out of his chest. His voice is shaking now. “So stop talking like I threw something away. There was nothing there to begin with.” The lie was a fragile shield, barely holding back a torrent of pain.

And for a moment, Satoru didn’t smile. He just looked at him—truly looked at the raw agony in Sukuna’s eyes—and something unreadable flickered behind his own.

Satoru’s anger was a living thing, a raging inferno that threatened to consume the cool, collected facade he usually wore. It was a raw, visceral fury, eclipsing even the bitter sting he’d felt when Sukuna initially severed his connection with Yuuji. This felt like a deeper betrayal, a reopening of wounds he thought had scabbed over with time and the relentless passage of days.

The possibility that Sukuna's actions, this potential abandonment of Yuuji, stemmed from something as archaic and infuriating as clan politics sent a shockwave through Satoru. It was a concept he’d always scorned, a system of suffocating tradition he’d fought against his entire life.

The realization ripped through the carefully constructed walls around Satoru’s past, tearing at the fragile peace he’d tried to build. Suddenly, the phantom weight of Suguru’s absence pressed down on him with renewed force. It was a familiar cocktail of emotions, one he’d tried to bury deep, but now it resurfaced with a vengeance, fueled by the unsettling possibility that history might be repeating itself, that the same suffocating forces that had stolen Suguru might now be reaching for Yuuji through Sukuna. The thought alone was enough to make him sick, a churning nausea in his gut.

Satoru paused just long enough, then delivered the final blow: “Does Yuuji know? Is that what this is, Ryoumen? You leave because the clan means more than your own brother?" His smile thinned into something cruel. "Kinda disappointing, don’t you think?"

Sukuna’s glare could’ve burned holes through concrete. "Do whatever the hell you want, Gojo. Don’t drag me into your psychotic games."

But Satoru only leaned forward slightly, voice dropping a notch, smooth and dangerous.  "Oh, but you’re already in it. You think you can just skip out of this project? Think again. If you don’t help, you fail. And we both know Principal Tengen will back me up. That’s how the Gojo family works—" he smirked, "—you already seem to know that pretty well, don’t you?"

for a moment, the two just stared at each other, no words needed. The tension was thick, sharp like broken glass underfoot. Then the door creaked open.

“Hei, what’s taking so long?” Yuuji’s voice cut through the static, cheerful but faintly concerned. Megumi stood quietly behind him.

Sukuna didn’t even look. His teeth clenched, eyes still locked on Satoru, and he turned toward Uraume. “Let’s go,” he said coldly, then stormed past the others without another word. Together, they moved toward the door.

But just as Sukuna reached it, Yuuji stepped in front of him, instinctively blocking his path. “Wait—” he said quickly, his voice a plea, reaching out, his fingers curling around Sukuna’s wrist, a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm between them. “Can we please just talk?”

The contact barely lasted a second.

Sukuna yanked his arm free like it stung, as if Yuuji’s touch had burned him. “Don’t touch me,” he bit out—low, sharp, and full of something brittle, something that sounded like it might shatter. His voice wavered, barely perceptible, a tiny crack in his composure, and his eyes—red-rimmed, glassy with unshed emotion—flickered once, just for a moment, revealing a raw vulnerability he desperately tried to hide.

Yuuji froze, stunned by the suddenness, by the raw, wounded look on his twin’s face. Sukuna shoved past him, a violent surge of movement, and stepped into the hallway without looking back, leaving a gaping void in his wake. Uraume followed, a silent shadow, casting one last, unreadable glance at the three still in the classroom.

Then the door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the room and leaving Yuuji utterly alone with the echo of his brother’s harsh words.

Yuuji stood there, hand still half-raised like he couldn’t believe it just happened. Slowly, he turned back to the room, eyes landing on Satoru. “…What did you do?” he asked. His voice was soft, but the accusation rang clear.

Satoru slid his hands out of his pockets, finally answering with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I convinced your brother to join our planning committee.”

Yuuji stared, confused, his brow drawing together as he searched Satoru’s expression, probing for the truth. Whatever had happened in this room... it wasn’t just about some committee. Yuuji and Sukuna may have spent years apart, but they were still twins, connected by an invisible, unbreakable thread. He didn’t need to hear words to know Sukuna had left upset—shaken, even, a profound disturbance in his usual guarded demeanor. There must be something else, something deeper at play.

And then Satoru chuckled softly, almost to himself. “And there’s another thing too.”

That made Yuuji and Megumi both pause. They looked at him expectantly, waiting, tension thick in the air.

Satoru tilted his head, more thoughtful than smug now. “I think I might’ve cracked something open,” he murmured. “Just a little.”

Neither Yuuji nor Megumi spoke, their silence loaded with suspicion and unease. They didn’t like the way that sounded. But before either could respond, Satoru looked up again, his tone shifting.

“Yuuji,” he said, voice casual—too casual. “What do you know about the Ryoumen family?”

The question landed heavy in the space between them.

Satoru had heard about the Ryomen family before. A faint memory, from years back—during his miserable Saturday clan history lessons as a kid. Some dusty story about old money, old power, whispers of influence. Everyone in Japan had always known the Ryomen family operated in finance—clean on the surface, but with enough shadowy influence to make most people nervous, to tread carefully. They weren’t loud like the Gojo clan, or as visibly involved as the Itadoris in their booming construction empire, but they knew how to move money—and power—quietly. Strategic. Cold. Dark. And Dangerous.

While the Itadoris built things. Foundations, contracts, government ties. Steady and loyal. Gojos didn’t stick to one field. They didn’t have to. Banking, medicine, infrastructure, politics—anything that mattered, his family had a hand in it. Not only because they needed the profit, but because they wanted control. And Satoru barely cared then. But now? Looking at Sukuna —Satoru couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something personal buried in that stare. His voice held something sharp and unspoken. Like Sukuna wasn’t just annoyed with him, but had already decided what kind of person he was before they even exchanged a word. Like he knew something. Like the Gojo name meant something personal to him. And not in a vague, distant way either.

That tone he used didn’t come from just a passing grudge or a bad first impression forged in these past few days they’d known each other.

It came from experience. And that was what got under Satoru’s skin.

He thought back to what little he knew—how Sukuna had vanished seven years ago, how even Yuuji, despite his relentless searching, hadn’t been able to find him, as if he’d simply ceased to exist. And then he resurfaced out of nowhere, not as someone protected, or comfortable, or thriving. No—he was clearly struggling, living on the margins. He worked nights, scraped by on part-time jobs, and applied desperately for scholarships. He chose the exact same university as his twin brother he had abandoned. That wasn’t someone who ran away.

If someone runs away from their family, they’re supposed to disappear. Just like these past seven years. Go off-grid. Stay clear of anything remotely tied to that world. But Sukuna didn’t feel like someone who’d left it all behind. The way he looked at Satoru, the words he chose, the sharpness in his tone—it was like he knew how these things worked. Like he’d been around clan politics long enough to grow bitter about it.

Satoru’s grin faltered, just a fraction.

What if Sukuna hadn’t just run away?

What if he’d been pushed out?

What if whatever drove him off had everything to do with the Ryoumen family—or the Itadoris—and the unspoken rot at the heart of old bloodlines?

-----------------

The apartment was quiet. Not the good kind—just the kind born out of sheer exhaustion.

Sukuna had finally passed out. He was curled on his side, back facing the room, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed like he had no energy left to care. The corner of the blanket kept slipping off his hip, and Uraume had already gotten up twice to tuck it back, not that Sukuna noticed. His breath was slow and uneven, but at least it was steady.

The stench of blood still lingered faintly in the air. That nosebleed earlier had been sudden—angry and defiant, like the rest of him. Sukuna’d snapped halfway through writing Yaga’s stupid punishment notes, trying to prove he could do it himself, too proud to admit the letters had started spinning again, just like they always did. His handwriting had turned unreadable near the end, each stroke jagged and heavy. Letters slipping, rotating, lines overlapping in a blur. A wall his brain had to climb every time. Then came the pill, finally swallowed after a full ten-minute standoff where Uraume threatened to call him Sukuna-sama, loud enough so everyone in their class could hear. And finally, the surrender—reluctant, half-conscious, with a quiet “fine” and his eyes already glassy.

Uraume knew. He’d seen it. The boy had grown up without being taught how to manage it—left to flounder in silence like so many things. Uraume had recognized the signs immediately. The way Sukuna always tried to mask his dyslexia by writing in bursts, then covering his own words with his palm like he didn’t want anyone to see. He pushed himself too hard. Always did. As if sheer willpower could force his mind to cooperate.

Now, with the chaos temporarily tamed, Uraume stood outside on the small balcony, one arm crossed, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled soft and ghostlike into the still air, mingling with the late afternoon sunlight that barely reached past the neighboring rooftops. It had been a long day. It had been a long week.

Uraume took a drag and exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the horizon but not really seeing anything. His thoughts, as he often did in moments like this, wandered backwards. Back to the first time he’d met Ryomen Sukuna.

Sukuna had been small—too small for the sharpness in his eyes. The funeral had been loud and formal, the Ryoumen estate crowded with whispering men and women in ceremonial black, bowing and murmuring and pretending not to notice the absence of half the family. Uraume remembered crouching down, trying to offer him a sweet wrapped in gold foil. Yuuji took it with a smile on his face but Sukuna had stared at it like it was poison. A child shouldn’t have had eyes like that. Distrustful. Alert. Like he already knew how cruel people could be, and how kindness was almost always a trap. Sukuna hadn’t cried. He’d just stood there, stiff in a borrowed black kimono, clinging to the Yuuji's sleeve next to him with tiny fingers, jaw locked tight. His hair had been longer then. Messier. No one dared touch him. Sukuna was never difficult. Not in the way people liked to assume. He was defensive. Brutally so. The kind of child who had learned too early that the world wasn’t safe, and kindness was rarely given freely. And somehow, he had stayed that way. Even now. Even after everything.

Uraume brought another cigarette to his lips and didn’t light it. He stared down at the street below, empty in the glow of late night. Then he thought of earlier—of today. After the argument in Yaga’s class, after the heat and noise and that smug bastard Gojo’s voice pushing Sukuna past his limit, he’d found him vomiting in the campus restroom. Kneeling on the tile, arms shaking, shoulders trembling. Between dry heaves, Sukuna had whispered, "Do you think he heard it?" His voice was so raw, Uraume barely recognized it.“When I said I didn’t have a brother. Did Yuuji hear me?”

Uraume had crouched beside him, hand hovering near his back, unsure. So he said, “No,” flatly. “He’s too stupid. Too slow. He didn’t hear anything.” It was a lie. Uraume didn’t know if Yuuji had heard or not. And honestly? He didn’t care.

Whether Yuuji heard or didn’t, the words weren’t wrong. He had never been a brother to Sukuna. Had never questioned the silence, the missing half of his own story. Uraume couldn’t understand how he had lived all these years without asking.

And if not for Sukuna—if not for the way Sukuna still defended him, still worried about how Yuuji would feel—Uraume would’ve resented Yuuji with every fiber of his being. Maybe he still did.

He exhaled slowly, finally crushing the unlit cigarette into the ashtray. Then, his thoughts turned toward his grandfather.

That solemn, stern man with his white-streaked hair and rough hands, who used to bring him to the Ryoumen estate as a boy. The kind of man who taught lessons not by scolding, but by standing still and watching whether you did the right thing when no one else was looking. True, loyal service to a house that, for all its power and darkness, had once protected their own. The Ryoumen family had fed and shielded Uraume’s clan during hard years. Especially Sukuna’s grandfather—Uraume still remembered the way his own grandfather would bow just slightly when that man entered the room.

“You serve with heart,” he used to say. “Because the family gave us dignity when others turned away.”

That was the legacy he carried. That was why he searched for Sukuna after he vanished. Why he never gave up.

The Ryoumen clan had once protected their bloodline. Especially Sukuna’s grandfather—he had treated Uraume’s family with rare dignity, even kindness, when few others would. That was why Uraume’s grandfather had sworn loyalty until death. And that oath now passed to him.

But these days, the Ryoumen name meant something else entirely.

Ever since the old Kouchi —Sukuna's grandfather died, control had shifted—to the widow, Sukuna’s grandmother. She had become the acting Kouchi, but her leadership had never been strong. And then he arrived. That man. This guy—a whisper, a smile, a shadow who moved through the family like smoke, twisting things from the inside. Under his influence, the family’s dealings had turned cold. Cruel. Pointless, even. Their business, once strict and calculated, had become erratic. Bloody. No longer bound by the quiet rules that had once made them feared but respected. Now they were just feared.

Uraume had seen it coming. Watched it unfold piece by piece. So he had started planning. Quietly. Thoroughly. For over a year. While searching for Sukuna, he’d been collecting records. Watching movements. Memorizing names. Tracking money trails and whispers. Gathering evidence, accounts, weak links in the system. Everything.

He had meant to tell Sukuna earlier today—at the café, when things were calmer. He had rehearsed the words. Practiced his tone. But then he saw the state he was in. Pale. Trembling. Empty around the eyes. The circles under his eyes. The way his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. Then came Gojo’s words. Then the fight. Then the toilet floor. So Uraume had stayed silent.

There would be time. There had to be time. Because like it or not, only Sukuna could fix what had been broken. Only he had the strength to burn it all down and build something better.

And Uraume— He would follow. He always had.

-----------------

Yuuji sat on the edge of his bed, a statue carved from a moment of profound stasis. The room was bathed in the hushed, amber glow of his desk lamp, a solitary beacon against the encroaching darkness. Outside, the night hummed a low, distant tune, but within the four walls, an oppressive stillness reigned. It felt as though even the very air held its breath, suspended in anticipation of an unspoken truth.

His phone, a cold weight in his palm, pulsed with the faint light of an outgoing call. It had been ringing, a monotonous, unanswered plea, for what felt like an eternity. He barely registered the sound, his mind a turbulent sea of swirling thoughts.

His memory replayed the earlier confrontation, a scene etched vividly into his mind. Satoru’s calm, unnervingly insightful voice cutting through the air, pinpointing a crack in Sukuna’s behavior, a motive, a reason for his past actions, why he left. And then the question, sharp and direct, about the Ryomen family and its connection to Sukuna. Yuuji remembered the way their eyes, Satoru’s and Megumi’s, had fixed on him, filled with a mixture of curiosity and a subtle, unsettling pity, as he'd uttered the damning words: "I don’t really know anything about my mom’s side."

A hot, bitter wave of anger surged through him then, not at them, but at himself. It was a searing, raw fury, laced with the corrosive sting of disappointment. How could he be so stupid, so blind, so utterly unaware? Satoru, who had known Sukuna for mere weeks, had seen the gaping chasm, the unspoken mystery that Yuuji, had somehow managed to ignore. The realization was a heavy, suffocating blanket, smothering him with a sense of profound idiocy and insensitivity. How could he have been so oblivious to the most fundamental aspects of his own family, especially when it held such a critical link to his brother leaving?

The Ryomen name. It echoed in his mind, a hollow, resonant sound. The missing stories, the veiled histories that had always eluded him. He recalled the blurred silence that would descend every time he, as a curious child, had dared to ask about that side of his family. His grandfather’s awkward, fumbling deflections. His dad’s weary sighs, heavy with unspoken burdens. And his mom—always, always changing the subject, her eyes just a little too bright, her smile a little too fixed. It was a pattern he’d recognized only now, in the harsh light of Satoru’s revelation.

The call still hadn’t connected. He shifted, a restless energy stirring within him, and his foot nudged against the rough edge of the rug beneath his bed. Staring at the physical evidence, the meticulously cataloged moments of their family life before Sukuna left, the truth felt far more sinister. There he was, Yuuji remembered, it was summer holiday when he was seven, beaming on the beach with his parents, sand clinging to his shins. Then another one, it was new year's holiday when he was nine, bundled in winter coats at a snowy resort, his grandfather attempting a clumsy snowball fight. And theme parks when he was ten with his parents by his side, historical sites when he was eleven, even just a random long weekend with his parents and granfather by a lake – Yuuji was always there, and Sukuna was always missing. It wasn't just a few photos; it was every single one of them, a glaring, impossible void. It's like Sukuna was never here in the first place. Like he didn't have a brother. Like Sukuna was just an illusion in this family.

A cold dread seeped into him. Why didn't he know? Why had he never questioned it more deeply? His childhood self, so quick to accept the easy explanation, felt like a stranger. And his family—why were they so normal about it? Why did no one ever mention Sukuna’s absence from these pivotal family memories? Why did there were no evidence of the fifiteen years Sukuna was here? Grow up with Yuuji, laughing together, playing soccer, bickering to each other. Why did there were no awkward explanations, no sighs, no subject changes like when he'd asked about his mom's side of the family? It was as if Sukuna’s non-presence during these times was completely natural, an unspoken agreement no one ever bothered to clarify.

Thinking about it made Yuuji want to throw up. Not just from the guilt tightening in his chest, but from a deeper revulsion—revulsion at how little he knew, at how easily he had accepted everything handed to him, as if it were whole, as if nothing had ever been missing. When the truth was, someone had been erased from that story. And Yuuji had lived for years without ever really asking why.

The phone clicked.

A voice, muffled and cautious, broke through the static, pulling him back from the swirling abyss of his memories. “Hello? Yuuji?”

He blinked, the soft lamplight burning into his eyes, and the present moment snapped into focus. He was back in his quiet room, the phone a solid presence in his hand. Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised his phone to his ear, his fingers tightening around the device, a sudden surge of resolve hardening his grip.

“Ijichi,” he said, his voice steady, though undeniably low, a whisper of the turmoil he contained.

“Let’s talk.”

-------------------

Chapter Text

------------------

The house was quiet. Too quiet, maybe. The lights were dimmed to a warm yellow glow, casting long shadows on the wood-paneled walls of the living room. The air was still, heavy with unspoken things.

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound as Yuuji sat hunched on the couch, elbows on his knees, phone still clutched in his hand long after the call had ended. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging once at the roots. It had been almost an hour since the call.

When the bell rings—soft, familiar—he stood up almost too fast.

Ijichi stepped inside with a slight bow, still in his neatly pressed slacks and shirt from earlier that day, though his eyes looked tired. The kind of tired that had nothing to do with time.

“Sorry for calling this late,” Yuuji muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s alright. I figured this day would come.”

They sat. Ijichi took the single chair. Yuuji stayed on the couch, the middle cushion between them like some kind of buffer. But it wasn’t enough. The silence still pressed down heavy.

“I want the truth,” Yuuji said, voice low. “About Mom’s family. About Sukuna. Everything you know.”

Ijichi’s mouth opened, then closed. He adjusted his glasses, buying time. But Yuuji didn’t look away. He didn’t blink.

Finally, Ijichi began.

“When you and Sukuna-sama were born, it was supposed to be a quiet celebration. Your mother, Kaori-sama… she had already severed ties with her family. She told your father that the Ryoumen family— that kind of life—was something she couldn’t endure. The rigid rules. The power games. The way love was conditional on obedience.” He exhaled, slow and deliberate, like the words had been sitting on his chest for years. 

Yuuji stayed silent, his nails pressing crescent marks into his palms.

“But the moment the Ryoumen found out you were twins,” Ijichi continued, “everything changed.” He lifted his gaze, voice steady now, though his eyes looked older than ever.

“From the very beginning, they demanded an heir. One of you. They said twins were rare, it’s a sign of fortune. So, they insisted the family needed one child to be brought back into the clan, to carry on the Ryoumen bloodline.”

The silence that followed was different now—heavier. Like they were standing at the mouth of something that couldn’t be undone once spoken aloud.

“Why Sukuna?” Yuuji asked, barely above a whisper. “Why him, not me?”

Ijichi gave a faint shake of the head. “I was never told why. Only that it was your parents’ decision. Maybe it was out of fear, or compromise, or something else entirely. But Sukuna-sama… he was the one they got.”

The room stilled around them. “After that,” Ijichi went on, “he was sent to the Ryoumen estate during school holidays. Your mother always made sure he was escorted, usually by me or another trusted driver. But with each visit… he changed. Quiet at first. Withdrawn. And over time… angrier.”

Yuuji felt something clawing at his throat. “So it wasn’t just him acting out.”

Ijichi didn’t respond, he continued, “It grew worse after Ryoumen-sama —your grandfather— passed away. With the head of the family gone, the Ryoumen elders became even more aggressive, especially your grandmother. She began demanding full custody of your brother, the heir. They said it was time for him to undergo a permanent return into the clan.”

“…They wanted me, didn’t they?” Yuuji asked suddenly.

Ijichi stiffened.

“I heard you,” Yuuji pressed. “Earlier, you said Sukuna was the one they got . Not the one they wanted .” Yuuji’s fists clenched on his lap.

“…Yes,” Ijichi said finally, eyes weary. “At first, they wanted you, Yuuji-sama. You were a quiet and obedient child. The kind of successor they could mold. But your parents refused outright. Don’t ask me why because I don't know.” Ijichi said, voice low, “So in the end, the clan accepted Sukuna-sama. Because he already carried their name. Because legally, he was already theirs.”

Yuuji lowered his gaze, throat burning.

“It didn’t happen all at once,” Ijichi said. “At first, it was subtle. At first it was pressuree—but it kept building. Stronger, heavier. Your parents were cornered, and Sukuna-sama was getting angrier too. No one was okay under that weight. The tension broke everything down, piece by piece… until your parents couldn’t take it anymore. And none of us dared to ask. We couldn’t even bring ourselves to speak about it.” Ijichi paused.

Yuuji was shaking his head. “They never told me, Sukuna too…Why?”

“They wouldn’t,” Ijichi said gently. “By the time you were both nine, your brother was already slipping. He started fighting back—refusing to return to the estate, skipping classes, getting into trouble. But the more he resisted, the harder the Ryoumen pushed. And that pressure, it didn’t just land on Sukuna-sama.” Ijichi’s voice grew tight.

“They came after your family’s business too. I remember there was a contract that was nearly finalized got pulled last minute. Then a development project your father had poured resources into suddenly lost funding. One by one, business partners backed out, always with some vague excuse—too risky, not the right time, concerns about reputation.”

Ijichi remembers when it all began. The Ryoumen clan didn’t just ask nicely when they wanted one of the twins. They demanded . And when the Itadori family didn’t give in immediately, they made sure the consequences hit hard. At first, it was just talk—polite but firm requests from the Ryomen family. They wanted one of the twins. No explanation, no real discussion. Just a demand wrapped in tradition. 

But when the Itadoris refused, things changed quickly. The collapse wasn’t dramatic. It was precise.

Contracts were pulled without warning. Clients disappeared overnight. A promising real estate project lost all backing. He remembers Jin-sama coming home late, face drawn and silent. Meetings were held in hushed voices. The tension in the house was unbearable. Everyone knew it had something to do with the Ryoumen clan, but no one dared say it aloud.

Ryoumen clan was old. Respected. Feared. They had influence that extended far beyond bloodlines—politicians, banks, corporate boards. They didn’t need to threaten anyone directly. They just needed to look away… and let the Itadori name sink.

He’d seen it all. The whispers in the office, the sudden shift in how people treated them. This family was breaking, and at the center of it all… was Sukuna. The boy never said anything. He just grew quieter. Angrier. More distant. 

And eventually, Itadori gave in.

They sent Sukuna to the Ryomen estate, permanently this time. No more holidays, no more pretending he still belonged in the house. It was like cutting off a limb to stop the bleeding. And sure enough, within months, the contracts came back. The money returned.

Yuuji couldn’t breathe. “My father—”

“—tried to protect you both,” Ijichi cut in. “But by then, he and your grandfather were desperate. Caught between a son they couldn’t control, and a clan that wouldn’t stop pressing.”

“…And they chose to let him go,” Yuuji said, barely audible.

Ijichi lowered his head. “Yes. The decision was made behind closed doors. I was only called after. Your grandfather told me to escort Sukuna-sama to the Ryōmen estate. Permanently. So, they sent him away,” Ijichi said softly. “After weeks of arguing. Of threats. Of your brother causing troubles everyday. Then your father and grandfather gave the final word.”

Yuuji’s throat closed up. “And no one told me.”

“You were just a child, Yuuji. I do understand why they didn't tell you. No parents want to burden their child with problems.” Ijichi paused, his voice cracking. 

Yuuji stared at him, horrified. What about Sukuna then? Didn't they think Sukuna was a child too? A child who needs protection?

Yuuji wanted to scream at his parents grave for what they did, but he instead he asked, “And Sukuna, he didn’t fight it?”

“I didn’t know, Yuuji. I was waiting outside, but he did ask about you” Ijichi said quietly. Yuuji’s eyes went wide.

“I told him you’d fallen asleep in your room. He stood there for a while. Then said, ‘Okay.’ And stepped into the car in silence and didn’t say a single word until we reached the Ryoumen estate.”

Silence dropped between them like a stone in a lake.

Yuuji’s voice broke, low and trembling. "And why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, eyes wide with hurt. "Seven years, Ijichi. I didn’t know anything. Don’t you think I deserved to know?"

Ijichi exhaled slowly, his expression worn with guilt. "Yuuji, I’m really sorry..." he said gently, "But, you need to understand—the Ryoumen clan isn’t just strict or traditional—they’re dangerous. Really dangerous. I made a promise to your parents and your grandfather to protect you from them. But I never meant to lie to you. I made a promise to myself—if you ever asked me, I wouldn’t hide it. That’s why I’m telling you the truth now."

Yuuji lowered his head, both hands gripping his hair as if trying to hold himself together. His fingers tightened in frustration, breath shaking. He looked like he wanted to scream or cry or vanish entirely. Regret spilled off him in waves—raw, silent, and crushing.

“I kind of understand Sukuna-sama then,” Ijichi whispered. “Why he didn’t wake you. Why he didn’t say goodbye. I think, he couldn’t bear it. Maybe he thought it’d be easier for you, not knowing.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence—broken only by Yuuji’s ragged breathing as he fought to keep himself from breaking down. 

Yuuji’s voice came out ragged. “Or maybe —maybe he was waiting for someone to stop him, and when no one did…He thought we all wanted him gone.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Even the soft hum of the refrigerator in the corner seemed to fade, swallowed by the weight of Yuuji’s words. Ijichi didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because what was there to say?

The room was still. Not even the clock dared to tick too loudly. 

—----------------------

It was past midnight—the kind of hour when even the highway seemed to breathe slower. The wide stretch of asphalt stretched ahead endlessly, illuminated by scattered pools of yellow light from overhead lamps. The beams flickered faintly against the cool mist that rolled in over the concrete, blurring the sharp lines of the road.

No traffic. No horns. Just silence. The kind that pressed against the windows and filled the space between heartbeats. The sky above was a deep, inky blue, still too early for dawn, but far enough from midnight that the air had started to shift—cooler, thinner, and sharp in the lungs. Every few seconds, the distant rumble of a truck would echo from somewhere far down the lanes, only to fade again into stillness. The metal guardrails gleamed dull silver under the glow, and the air carried a faint scent of rain and engine oil—cleaner than daytime, but strangely sterile.

The road stretched ahead in silent black, only the faint sweep of Yuuji’s headlights cutting through the night. It was almost 3 AM, and the highway was empty—just a few distant tail lights vanishing into the dark and the rhythmic thrum of his car tires on asphalt.

He didn’t remember when exactly he made the decision to leave. It had been right after Ijichi told him everything he knew. Or maybe during. Or maybe after he was moving until he was on his knees in front of the toilet. Or maybe after his body just heaved — once, twice — a horrible sound tearing out of his throat as his stomach twisted violently. Or maybe after the tears, hot and endless, leaking down his cheeks as his chest caved in around the weight of something that had always been there. Or maybe after he gagged again and again, the taste of bile rose with the truth. Or maybe after twenty six minutes of his stomach gave out more bile, more shaking. Until his forehead hit the cold ceramic as sobs tore through him, loud and messy, filling the space with a grief he didn’t know how to contain.

Or maybe, after everything hit him all at once. Sukuna coming home late. Sukuna skipping family dinners. Sukuna slamming doors, yelling, getting into fights — and Yuuji had always brushed it off as just Sukuna being difficult. Because it wasn’t Sukuna who changed. It was how their parents looked at him — like he was inconvenient. Like he was already halfway gone.

Looking back at how their mother smiled more when it was just Yuuji at the table. Their father said “at least we still have one good kid” after Sukuna stormed out one night. And Yuuji’d let it slide. He’d never asked why Sukuna stopped talking to them. Why he looked like he was angry, crumbling, piece by piece, right in front of them.

And then Yuuji had moved on autopilot—threw on a jacket, grabbed his keys, didn’t bother with his phone. It was still sitting on the table near the couch, buzzing quietly with unread messages. He hadn’t even glanced at them. He didn’t care. His chest felt tight. He clenched the steering wheel harder.

Just as he passed the road sign that read Sendai — 92 km , something twisted violently in his stomach. That same nauseating wave—sour, hot, shameful, disgusted—rushed up his throat, and he swerved off to the shoulder without even signaling.

The tires scraped against gravel as the car jerked to a halt. Yuuji barely managed to shove the door open before he stumbled out, doubling over.

He vomited. Again. So disgusted by himself. Nothing really came out. He had barely eaten since morning. But his body still heaved, like it was trying to rid itself of something rotten lodged deep inside him.

His hands trembled as he braced himself on his knees, forehead almost touching the cold edge of the door frame. The air was crisp out here, cleaner than Tokyo's, but it didn’t help. Everything tasted bitter. The wind stung at the corners of his eyes. 

How many times had he watched Sukuna come home late, distant and angry, and assumed it was his own fault? How many times had he rolled his eyes at their parents’ silence, thinking it was just a phase Sukuna would grow out of? How many times had he chosen to be blind?

The wind was cold, sharp, slicing through his thin hoodie, but he barely felt it. The silence was thick—no cars passing now, just the sound of his breath coming hard and uneven.

His eyes burned. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then stayed there for a long moment, crouched on the ground like a kid, forehead pressed to his knee. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing back another dry heave.

Sukuna had been hurting for years. And he hadn’t just missed it—he had dismissed it. He had joined in, hadn’t he?

Yuuji straightened slowly, breathing hard. His knees were weak, and his palms were scraped from where they’d hit the ground.

The car stood besides him like a silent witness. He climbed back in, shut the door, and rested his head against the steering wheel for a long moment. The cold of the metal seeped into his forehead. The car interior smelled faintly of mint gum and an old university sweater he hadn’t washed.

He didn’t know what he’d find in Sendai. Most of their old things had been left behind when he moved to Tokyo three years ago. He hadn’t touched that house since. But something inside him—desperate, shaking—needed to look.

If there were other answers anywhere, they’d be there. In that house.

He started the engine again, the headlights flickered on again, casting long beams onto the empty road. Yuuji adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. The sky was dark, but the horizon glowed faintly in the distance. And then he drove.

—---------------------------

By the time Yuuji reached Sendai, it was early morning, the sun just peeking over the horizon, casting barely a trace of light. The streets of Sendai were empty in the pale, pre-dawn light. Yuuji’s car rolled quietly along the familiar route, the horizon just starting to glow with the promise of sunrise. He turned into the familiar street, its rows of dark, quiet houses lined with faint pools of light spilling from curtained windows. His chest tightened at the sight of the one at the end—the house he’d grown up in.

He turned into the driveway, the sight of the old family home hitting him like a tide. The shape of the tiled roof against the fading night sky. The garden gate he’d swung open thousands of times as a kid. It was exactly the same, yet felt impossibly distant.

The caretaker—an older man who’d been with the family for years—appeared at the door, still in his work jacket, eyes widening at the sight of Yuuji. Before the man could speak, Yuuji’s voice cut in, quiet but firm. “Leave the house to me today. And don’t tell anyone I’m here. No one.”

The man blinked, hesitated for a breath, then nodded and slipped past him into the soft morning chill.

Inside, the air was cool and faintly scented with cedar from the polished floors. Yuuji didn’t stop to look around. His steps carried him up the stairs, down the hallway bathed in the dim silver of early light, and straight to the door on the left.

Sukuna’s bedroom.

He stood there for a long moment, hand on the knob, before pushing it open. The space felt untouched—quiet in a way that pulled at something deep in his chest. Without thinking, he stepped inside, crossed the room. His gaze sweeping slowly across Sukuna’s room. It felt strange—familiar in its layout and scent, yet foreign, like it belonged to someone he’d never truly known.

The walls were covered with posters from exhibitions, sheets of paper torn from a sketchbook, each covered in his drawings—corners curled slightly with age. The other sheets of paper with half-finished sketches were on the desk—stacked alongside several sketchbooks and his favorite pencils—each line sharp and deliberate in a way only Sukuna could draw. In the corner stood a tall shelf crammed with cassette tapes, the kind Sukuna used to listen to for hours.

Yuuji realized, with a hollow twist in his chest, that he didn’t even know what Sukuna’s favorite song was. Sukuna had always known everything about him—his likes, his dislikes, even the snacks he’d reach for when he was upset—but Yuuji had never paid the same attention back. That thought stung deeper than he expected.

He moved toward the bed—the same bed he used to climb into when they were kids—and sank down onto it. The mattress gave beneath him with a familiar weight, and before he knew it, tears were sliding down his cheeks again.

He was exhausted. His head throbbed, his chest ached, the sadness pressing against him until it felt hard to breathe. Closing his eyes, he let himself think of Sukuna—not the distant, guarded figure he’d become, but the twin who had been with him from the very beginning. The one who had been there, literally, since before either of them had taken their first breath.

And lying there, Yuuji couldn’t help but wonder how they’d drifted so far apart. It was Yuuji’s fault, right? He just couldn’t stop imagining it—how Sukuna must have felt. How deeply betrayed he must have been, knowing his own twin hadn’t known, hadn’t been there, when he was forced to leave.

The thought made Yuuji’s stomach twist. Shame burned hot in his chest. He didn’t even know how he could face Sukuna now, didn’t feel like he had the right to. What kind of brother had he been, to be so unaware?

Just picturing it hurt—so what must it have been like for Sukuna, to actually live through that?

The scent of faint detergent lingered in the air. He shifted slightly, as if searching for any lingering hint of Sukuna’s scent that might still linger. Eyes growing heavy. He’d been driving for hours without rest, but it wasn’t just exhaustion pulling him under—it was the flood of memories this room carried. It came in waves—messy, sharp-edged, and warm all at once.

When they were small enough to share the same bed without it feeling crowded. The room back then wasn’t this one—they’d been inseparable; Yuuji remembered clinging to Sukuna when he had a fever, how Sukuna would frown and hover if Yuuji scraped his knee. They’d steal each other’s snacks, fall asleep halfway through telling stories, wake up to the sound of the other breathing beside them.

When they were kids, this door had been open more often than not. They’d shared a room in the beginning, crammed together in the smaller bedroom at the end of the hall. It was smaller, they’d filled with messy blankets and scattered toys. Yuuji hadn’t wanted to move out when their parents insisted they needed their own space—said they were getting older, that they needed privacy.

He still remembered the stubborn ache in his chest when they made the switch in second grade. Sukuna got the room with the view of the back garden; Yuuji’s was across the hall, facing the front.

At first, he’d still wander in whenever he wanted. Sit on Sukuna’s bed, steal his snacks, watch him listening to music from his favourite black vintage walkman in that lazy, slouched way. And Sukuna never seemed to mind. They’d been inseparable then, the kind of close where Yuuji could feel when Sukuna wasn’t well—fever or headache or even just a bad day. And Sukuna was the same. If Yuuji was hurt, Sukuna would come find him, no matter where he was in the house.

It had been that way until… it wasn’t.

Until the fights started. Small at first, then sharper, more frequent. Yuuji couldn’t remember when exactly he stopped visiting this room, only that one day he realized the gap between them had stretched too wide.

Sukuna’s fights started small—arguments that flared too easily, a shove that turned into a swing. But over time, they spilled beyond the school gates, until it seemed like trouble had a way of finding him no matter where he went.

The first time Yuuji saw it happen was in the summer of their fifth-grade year. Usually, after classes ended, Yuuji would head straight to football practice, while Sukuna lingered near the edge of the field, waiting for him to finish. Lying in the grass by the edge of the field, earphones in from his Walkman, or sometimes scribbling in his sketchbook at angles Yuuji could never quite catch. That day, though, the spot where Sukuna usually wait was empty.

When practice ended and Yuuji walked home, he found him—messy-haired, shirt collar stretched, a smear of dirt across his cheek—standing in front of the school gates, waiting. His knuckles were scraped raw, and he beamed at Yuuji, the kind of smile that radiated pure relief. Later, Yuuji would learn the guy had been picking on one of Sukuna’s friends.

Sukuna wasn’t the kind of kid who smiled easily. He preferred to grumble, brow furrowed in that way that always made Yuuji want to tease him. But around Yuuji, the corners of his mouth would lift more often—sometimes into a crooked smirk, sometimes into real, unguarded laughter when Yuuji did something ridiculous.

At the time, Yuuji had thought Sukuna was cool, in a way. Like something out of the action manga they sometimes read together—fearless and unflinching, stepping in when no one else would. But the fights didn’t stop there. One fight turned into another. And another. Soon it wasn’t just about defending friends—sometimes it was strangers, sometimes it was because someone had looked at him the wrong way. The more Yuuji saw it, the harder it was to tell if Sukuna was fighting to protect, or simply because fighting had started to feel like something he enjoyed.

After that, the threads that bound them began to fray, one by one. The first to snap was their routine. Sukuna no longer waited by the field. Yuuji would finish practice, muscles aching with a familiar burn, and his eyes would automatically scan for the slouching figure of his twin, only to find an empty space that gaped back at him. He started walking home alone, the familiar route feeling alien and unnervingly quiet.

Often, the house would be just as quiet when he arrived. Sukuna would still be out, a ghost in the city while Yuuji sat through a tense, silent dinner. Soon, Sukuna wasn't just late; he would return long after the sun had set, a phantom slipping through the house. His arrival was announced not by a greeting, but by the furious, muffled timbre of their father and grandfather's voice. The sharp, cutting words bled through the walls, the low rumble of disappointment—the sounds became a new, ugly soundtrack to their evenings. Yuuji would retreat to his room, He’d clamp his hands over his ears or turn up his music, a flimsy shield against the confrontation. He never went to stand between them, because how could he defend actions he couldn’t understand? A cold, heavy shame settled in his gut—not just for Sukuna, but for his own inaction, his silent complicity.

But it was the room that became the final tombstone for what they'd had. Sukuna’s door, once just a piece of wood and paint, had morphed into a resolute barrier. The same threshold Yuuji used to cross without a second thought—to steal a hoodie, to complain about homework, to just exist in the same space—now felt like a hostile border. The space he once walked into so freely now seemed impossibly, devastatingly out of reach. But that memory was now a phantom limb, an ache for a connection that had been cleanly amputated. The door stood unyieldingly closed, and the silence behind it was a definitive statement Yuuji could no longer pretend not to understand.

And a profound and deafening silence began to emanate from Sukuna's room. No music, no muttered curses, nothing. It was as if the room itself was holding its breath.

Yuuji could pinpoint the exact moment the tide turned. He could still vividly recall the first time he’d chosen his new friends over his twin, a casual betrayal that felt monumental in hindsight. He hesitated at the school gates, looking back at Sukuna who had already settled onto a bench, sketchbook in hand with the foam headphones of his Walkman, effectively shutting out the world. For a single, stretched-out second, Yuuji considered going back. Instead, he’d turned and walked away.

It was Megumi’s arrival that acted as a reluctant bridge over the silence, accidentally stitching them back together. By befriending them both, he created a neutral ground where they were forced to speak again. They tried, then, to fall back into their old rhythm, to reclaim the effortless intimacy they once shared. But a chasm had been carved between them, and even when they stood on the same side of it, the drop was always there. It was like a bone that had been set wrong; functional, yes, but a dull ache always remained as a reminder of the break. They were brothers, they were even friends, but they were no longer two halves of the same whole.

—----------------------------

The late afternoon sun slanted across the tall windows of the student council room, casting amber lines across polished floors and long meeting tables. The space, normally quiet and formal, buzzed with life today—rows of metal chairs pulled in from nearby classrooms to accommodate the unusually large group. Stacks of flyers and printouts were already scattered across the side table, and a half-eaten pack of snack sat forgotten beside a steaming thermos of green tea.

The room smelled faintly of old books and cherry-scented hand sanitizer.

The student council meeting room was perched on the third floor of the main campus building, its long rectangular windows letting in the soft gold of the late afternoon sun. Rows of metal-framed chairs faced a whiteboard already half-covered in colorful marker scrawls and post-its. Outside the windows, the wind was quiet, and faint chatter from the courtyard below added a distant hum to the still air.

Most of the chairs were occupied now, the room filled with the quiet bustle of the students and  club representatives settling in.

At the head of the room stood Mai Zenin—today in a crisp, navy blazer with her prefect pin shining near her collar—, sharp-eyed and neatly dressed, flipping open her folder with practiced ease. Beside her, lounging with a crooked grin and one leg over the other, was Satoru Gojo, lazily spinning a red marker between his fingers. His white sleeves were rolled up, sunglasses tucked in his collar.

As the campus prefect, Mai had naturally taken on a central role in managing the upcoming university anniversary—a sprawling event that would span several days and involve nearly every club and department on campus. The responsibility had been handed to Satoru first—specifically requested by Principal Tengen, under the assumption that his popularity and connections would make him the perfect front-facing coordinator.

But organizing an event of this scale wasn’t something Satoru could charm his way through alone. With dozens of moving parts, multiple venues, and interdepartmental coordination required, the university’s student council was pulled in to form the core management team, working hand-in-hand with the planning committee Satoru had personally assembled.

Mai, sharp and methodical, quickly emerged as the backbone of that structure. As prefect, she wasn’t just the highest-ranking student representative—she was a natural leader with the kind of authority even Satoru didn’t bother challenging. While he kept things lively and adaptable, Mai was the one who kept things from falling apart behind the scenes.

She delegated with precision, maintained close contact with every club president, and had already drafted the initial division of responsibilities before their first official meeting. With her overseeing logistics and Satoru managing creative direction and public engagement, the event was in—arguably—the best hands possible.

“Alright,” Mai started crisply, “let’s begin. The university’s 80th Anniversary Festival is two and a half months away. That gives us roughly eight weeks to organize, design, and execute everything. We're expecting alumni, students, media, and even board donors to attend. So—no half-assed work.”

“Aw, you're no fun,” Gojo drawled, flashing a smile. “Let them breathe, Mai. We’re here to build dreams, not crush spirits.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead she cleared her throat, flipping through a neatly stapled document in her hands.

“I’ve gathered all the names of the students committee involved. Based on that, I’ve already drawn up a tentative arrangement for task distribution. It’s not final, but it’s structured—so we’re not scrambling later.” She glanced around the table, crisp and to the point.

“Here’s the breakdown,” she continued, glancing down at the clipboard. “Event categories are finalized. We’ll be personally overseeing each division and liaising with respective club leads. First—” She gestured to the board where event titles were already written in bold.

“Cultural Booths. This will be handled by Yuta Okkotsu, Uraume, and Toge Inumaki,” she said.

“Eh?” Yuta looked up from his notes. “We’re doing traditional booths, like calligraphy, flower arrangement, yukata photo corners, those things? Like last year?”

Mai nodded. “Yes. It was a success last year, so we're bringing it back again this year. And anything representing regional cultures, Yuta Okkotsu and Toge Inumaki—you two will coordinate every club involvement and help draft a rotation schedule.”

“Got it,” Yuta said simply, hands folded over their clipboard. Inumaki just gave a peace sign and said, “Shake shake.” No one seemed to question it.

“Next, we will also do the stage shows and live performances,” Mai said. “Nanami, Maki, and Itadori—” She paused. “—he’s not here?”

Everyone glanced subtly toward the empty seat beside Megumi. Megumi, stiff and visibly distracted, didn’t respond. He hadn’t touched his iced tea.

“He was feeling unwell last night,” Gojo offered a lie. “Probably sleeping it off.”

“Anyways,” Mai continued. “Maki, Nanami—you’ll take point for now. I expect a list of performance slots, club rehearsals, and technical needs by the end of next week.”

“Copy that,” Maki said, crossing her arms. Nanami simply nodded, calm and unreadable as always.

“Next is Food Stalls. Todo, Panda, and Kugisaki,” Gojo called out, picking up the next category. “You three are on food management. Stall design, layout map, hygiene permits, the whole deal.”

“Hell yeah,” Todo grinned. “I want regional specialties! Let’s bring in spicy curry udon from Osaka.”

“Only if I get yakisoba and taiyaki,” Panda chimed in.

“I’ll make sure no one’s serving stale takoyaki like last year,” Nobara said, flipping a page in her notebook.

Satoru’s voice dropped slightly, more formal now, he continued,  “And the next is as usual, our campus art exhibition, this will be curated by Ryomen Sukuna, Fushiguro Megumi, and Utahime Iori, under the Art Club’s name. You’ll also be responsible for the visual theme of the anniversary.”

Sukuna sat with his usual straight-backed posture, arms folded loosely. He looked—well, normal. Pale as ever, shadows under his eyes, but composed. No trembling hands, no cloudy stare. Just quiet focus. 

Utahime responds, “Got it, We’ll need final layouts by the end of this month so the Facilities Office can help prep space.”

Satoru didn’t hear Utahime, he kept glancing at Sukuna every now and then—subtle, fleeting, like he didn’t want anyone to notice, least of all himself. But it wasn’t subtle enough. His eyes kept drifting, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the meeting.

Sukuna was seated at the far end of the table, next to Uraume who stared at Satoru like he wanted to murder Satoru right there. But Satoru didn’t care, his focus was on Sukuna only. 

He was in black again. Of course he was. An oversized hoodie, sleeves tugged over his wrists, the drawstring left loose and uneven like he hadn’t bothered to fix. His hair looked damp again, stubbornly clinging in soft waves at his temple and the nape of his neck. What was with that? Did he never dry it properly?

Satoru watched him, annoyed and endeared in equal measure.

Sukuna’s bangs fell into his face as he bent over his sketchbook, hiding most of his expression. The hood hung low against his back, shadowing the curve of his neck. His hair wasn’t wet exactly—but not dry either. That in-between, slightly mussed look like he’d just stepped out of the shower and left it to air-dry as he walked. Or maybe he had dried it. Badly. Which was somehow worse.

And now Satoru couldn’t stop imagining grabbing a towel and rubbing it over his head. Rough but not too rough. Just enough to scold him a little. Seriously, do you not own a hair dryer? What if you catch a cold?

There were fresh bandages on his hands. Cleaner than last time. Neater, too. The wrap over his right palm looked firmer, more secure. Someone had helped him, probably Uraume. At least there was no charcoal this time. Just a regular mechanical pencil between his fingers, tapping lightly as he sketched. A small sketchbook propped against one knee. His pencil moved in slow, deliberate strokes, and not once had he looked up. His posture was loose, bordering on indifferent. Expression unreadable. Closed off. Not cold exactly—just... elsewhere.

No mask either. His jaw looked sharper without it, his lips pale from biting down on them in thought. And he looked quieter today. 

Satoru shifted in his seat, restless with something he didn’t know how to name. He wanted Sukuna to glance up, to meet his eyes, to say something just to him. But Sukuna stayed exactly where he was, self-contained and unreachable. Messy hair, wrapped hands, damp bangs, pencil moving in slow circles.

Satoru sighed through his nose. He found himself watching too long, waiting for something—anything. A twitch of a brow, a glance up when his name was mentioned, the slightest sign that he was paying attention. But there was nothing. Sukuna hadn’t even reacted when Mai handed out the task sheets. Not a flicker when the exhibition was brought up. Not a word, not a glance. And it irritated him more than it should’ve.

The scratch of pencil against paper was the only confirmation Sukuna was still physically in the room. And somehow, that single sound—soft, steady, and utterly self-contained—felt louder than any voice in this room.

Satoru leaned back in his chair, fingers curled against his chin, hiding the small sigh that tried to slip out.

He wanted Sukuna to look up. Just once. Wanted to catch a flicker of something, some reaction—wanted proof that he could still get to him . But Sukuna didn’t give him that. Didn’t even spare him a glance. And for reasons he wasn’t ready to name, that stung more than it should have.

Mai took over again, tapping the whiteboard with flair. “Now for our new event,” Mai said with a hint of pride, “we’re introducing an Interdepartmental Competition—think relay races, tug of war, volley or soccer, obstacle course, or even club relays. We'll finalize the exact contests soon.”

“Event leads will be Satoru, Naoya, and Itadori—if he ever shows up,” she added dryly.

“Great,” Gojo stretched. “I’ve got games in mind already. Giant futons and inflatable sumo suits.”

Mai gave him a warning look. “Keep it appropriate. We want this to be exciting, not a circus.”

Naoya, lounging across from them, scoffed. “Honestly, if we rely on Gojo’s taste, it will be a circus.”

Gojo smiled sweetly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Then Mai stepped back to the whiteboard and tapped the corner with her marker. “All clubs are expected to contribute at least one booth, display, or performance. If you’re club presidents, we’ll be coming to you individually to finalize your submissions by the end of this month.”

A murmur of acknowledgement went around the room.

“Also,” she added, “Art Club will be in charge of visuals—decor, flyers, signage, everything. Make sure it matches the theme, which we’ll vote on next week.”

The meeting wrapped up not long after, voices overlapping as everyone stood and began collecting their papers. Satoru stretched, cracking his neck, before raising his voice over the noise.

“Hey, before you all go—just a reminder: some of you are still first-years, so don’t be afraid to ask questions or suggest ideas. Talk to your seniors if you’re confused.” He paused, then grinned. “Or better yet, talk to me. I know everything on this campus.”

A few students laughed. Someone booed.

Satoru's gaze flicked briefly—too briefly—to the far end of the table, where Sukuna was still hunched over his sketchbook. He added, almost offhandedly, “Or ask Mai if you don’t trust me. She’s got the full list of every student involved and already helped me make the duty arrangements.”

Then, with a wink thrown in Sukuna’s direction (which went completely ignored, of course), he leaned back casually and added, “And don’t worry, for any medical emergencies during the event—like fainting, panic attacks, or if someone accidentally stabs themselves with knives or scissors—Shoko, Junpei, and the entire pre-med club squad will be on standby. So try not to die, okay?”

He ended it with a dramatic thumbs-up and a grin wide enough to almost hide the tiny disappointment when Sukuna still didn’t look up. A few snickers and amused sighs spread around the room as everyone tried to leave, but before anyone could start packing up, Mai’s voice cut in—calm, clear, and unmistakably final.

“Before you leave, make sure to write down your active phone number on the sheet by the door,” she said, standing with arms crossed, her clipboard tucked against one side. “Everyone involved in the committee will be added to the official group chat tonight. We’ll use it to distribute updates, adjust timelines, and confirm task progress.”

She gave a look that left no room for argument. “Please use the group chat only for communication relevant to the anniversary planning. No memes. No spam. We don’t have time to dig through chaos.”

Satoru gave a mock gasp. “No memes? You’re taking the soul out of teamwork, Mai.”

Mai didn’t even blink. “You’re free to make your own meme group on your own time. This one’s for work.”

Satoru raised both hands in surrender but shot a small smirk Sukuna’s way—only to find, once again, the boy hadn’t looked at him at all, busy tucking his sketchbook into his shoulder bag.So, as soon as everyone lined up to fill the sheet by the door, Satoru’s eyes lit up like someone just handed him a personal challenge wrapped in ribbon. Without missing a beat, he pushed off the table and made a beeline for the door, practically skipping.

Not like he needed to line up for a phone number. He was Gojo Satoru, after all—he could pull up student records in under a minute if he really wanted to. But this wasn’t about that at all.

Satoru leaned on the doorframe, biting back a grin. He glanced over his shoulder as he reached the door, eyes darting toward that familiar figure in line. 

There he was—Sukuna, standing with one hand tucked into his hoodie pocket, the other lazily holding the clipboard now that it had reached him. His head tilted slightly as he read over the form, damp strands of hair clinging to his cheekbone like always, like he’d just come from a shower and couldn’t be bothered to towel off properly. Satoru had to physically resist the urge to march over and mess it up even more—or dry it for him. His bandaged hand moved slowly, gripping the pen like it wasn’t worth the effort. For someone who could carve clean lines into paper like it was instinct, he wrote his name and number like he hated every letter. 

Satoru didn’t mean to stare. Not really.

He was just... observing. That’s what he told himself anyway. 

Something about Sukuna held Satoru there—some slow, magnetic pull that made him want to lean in and catch more of those quiet contradictions. Sukuna tilted his head, annoyed at the form, lips pressed into the faintest scowl that never reached his eyes. His damp hair clung to his cheek in that same stubborn way it always did, and Satoru almost chuckled to himself, thinking he looked like a wild cat being asked to sit through roll call.

And Satoru didn’t wait. He leaned just close enough—closer than necessary, really—and leaned over just enough to speak near Sukuna’s ear.

“Hope that’s your real number,” he said casually, like they were already in the middle of a conversation. “It would be a shame if I needed to check in about something and couldn’t reach you—let’s say, Yuuji’s whereabouts.”

Sukuna didn’t even blink. He continued writing like Satoru’s voice was nothing more than air conditioning noise.

Satoru tilted his head, still watching him. “Seriously, though. Where is your brother, Sukuna? No texts, no voice notes, not even a meme or bad emoji since last night. I was starting to wonder if he’s dead, or if you finally scared him off for good.”

Still nothing. Sukuna handed the clipboard off to the person behind him without sparing Satoru a glance.

“Wow,” Satoru said under his breath, eyebrows rising. “Not even a lie? What happened to that sparkling Ryoumen charm?”

Uraume, who had been standing a pace behind Sukuna, took a step forward. His eyes met Satoru’s, cold and gleaming like a scalpel just pulled from a tray. Satoru smiled brightly at him. “Relax, dude. I’m just making conversation.”

Uraume didn’t speak—but the way his stare lingered on Satoru’s throat suggested he was imagining several non-verbal responses involving sharp objects. Which Satoru ignored because he was busy looking back at Sukuna. Who scoffed and looked away, adjusting the hood of his black hoodie and slung his bag higher on his shoulder. But not before stuffing the folded anniversary pamphlet— from the small stack Mai had set beside the sign-up sheet earlier— into his bag with a little more force than necessary. Like he didn’t want anyone noticing he was taking it at all. 

The paper was slightly glossy, faintly bent at the corner—last year’s anniversary event rundown. Mai had tossed them on the table half an hour ago, telling the new committee members to take one if they needed a visual reference. Most ignored it. One or two took it absently. But Satoru noticed. And that was enough to make something flicker in his chest.

For someone who kept pretending not to care, Sukuna sure didn’t throw the damn thing away. He didn’t crumple it, didn’t leave it on the table like the guy next to him. No, he took it. Quietly, almost defensively. Satoru saw the way he scoffed before tucking it into his bag, like he was annoyed by the whole thing—but still, he took it. His fingers hesitated just slightly, like even that motion was betraying him.

It made something stir in him—a sort of eager itch. Not desire, not yet. Just... interest. Curiosity sharpened into hunger. He wanted more of this. More of those subtle tics Sukuna probably didn’t know he gave away. More of those moments where the script didn’t line up with the actor. 

Yesterday had been the first time he saw it—that fracture in Sukuna’s voice when he lashed out about Yuuji, like the words had come from somewhere deeper than his pride would allow.

Sukuna then turned and walked away without a glance back. Uraume followed close behind, casting Satoru one last cold glance, but saying nothing, like always. Satoru watched them turn the corner, until their footsteps disappeared down the hall. Only then did he let his eyes drop to the clipboard left behind on the table.

There it was. Neat row of numbers, half-smudged ink. 

After Sukuna and Uraume disappeared down the corridor, Satoru casually slipped his phone out of his right pocket—still wearing that infuriating smirk and ignoring the crowd moving around him. He opened his contacts app and saved Sukuna’s number.

Contact name: Suku-chan.

The second he hit save, a grin broke across his face—wider, dumber. He could already imagine Sukuna’s reaction if he ever found out. That narrowed gaze, that tight silence, maybe even a glare. Or would he scoff? Curse?

A private, delightful little fantasy played out in Satoru's mind. They way Sukuna's eyes would narrow into cold slits, the sharp silence that would precede a muttered curse or a scoff of feigned indifference. The thought of it—of piercing Sukuna’s perfect, untouchable facade—was intoxicating.

Satoru chuckled under his breath. The possibilities were endless—and all equally delightful. Still grinning like a lunatic, his screen lit up again. Notification from the group chat—Sukuna Project. A name Satoru had insisted on keeping, no matter how much Yuuji protested. 

He opened the chat—and his smile faltered.

Still no word from Yuuji. Satoru’s chest tightened. He switched to their personal messages still marked as delivered . Not read. Not opened.

“Hey, about today, sorry if I pushed too far.”

“Hey, you okay?”

Still nothing. The single grey checkmark was a stark, cold confirmation of silence. For the first time all day, the playful facade cracked, and genuine worry etched its way onto his features. Especially after their conversation yesterday about Sukuna and his mother's family. 

Last night, he’d rationalized it away. Yuuji had the attention span of a golden retriever; it wasn’t unusual for him to get absorbed in a game or a movie and forget his phone existed. But to miss a full day of classes? To not even glance at his phone for nearly twenty-four hours? That wasn't just Yuuji being Yuuji. 

His mind replayed yesterday’s conversation, the puzzle pieces rearranging themselves into a new, uglier picture. He saw Yuuji again, nervously scratching the back of his neck, his casual shrug about not knowing much about his own family. It hadn't sat right with Satoru then, and it gnawed at him now, a cold, bitter certainty. Yuuji wasn’t from some average household—he was blood-tied to one of the most infamous, insular clans in the region. And he just… didn’t know anything?

Satoru remembered Sukuna’s reaction too—the sharp bitterness in his voice. And a cold, terrible clarity washed over Satoru, so potent it made his breath catch. What if Yuuji had been kept in the dark this whole time?? What if, in some twisted attempt to protect him, he had been kept completely in the dark? What if he really didn’t know his twin had been made into a sacrificial heir? What if Sukuna had been abandoned by his own family?

If that was true…

Then Sukuna wasn't the villain. He wasn’t the one who walked away. He was the one who was left behind.

The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow. The last traces of his earlier humor vanished, leaving behind something hollow and disturbingly quiet. He scrolled numbly through his notification list, a blur of forgotten assignments, texts from his family about corporate duties, and a string of ignored messages from juniors and girls he’d flirted with. His thumb stopped on the Sukuna Project group chat. He opened it again, this time reading the messages properly. The group’s shared anxiety was a mirror of his own.

Yuta, Panda, Maki, Shoko, Utahime—even Nanami and Haibara—were all checking in. They were all saying the same thing:This wasn’t like Yuuji. Even when he had a fever, he replied. Even when he was late, he let someone know. But now—no classes, no responses, and unread messages piling up.

The group chat lit up with a furious succession of messages.

Nobara: Why isn't he answering?! Even if he's sick he'd at least READ the damn messages?? I've spammed him with stupid cat memes and nothing! This isn't like him.

Panda: Calm down, Nobara. Maybe he just dropped his phone in the toilet or something. It happens.

Maki: It's been a day, Panda. He's not just "not answering." He's gone radio silent. This isn’t a lost phone situation.

Megumi: I’ve already texted Ijichi. If I don't hear back from him by tonight, I’m going to the house myself.

Yuta: I don't like this. It feels wrong. Has anyone tried calling?

Shoko: Tried an hour ago. Went straight to voicemail.

Utahime: This is making me anxious.

Nanami: Let’s not jump to conclusions. Yuuji is the most reliable person I know. He will be alright.

The message hung in the air, a silent question that made Satoru's stomach clench.

Haibara: So… Do we still go ahead with the plan? I mean, Sukuna finally came back after being MIA for a week.

Yuta: I don’t know. It feels wrong to keep pushing it without Yuuji here. Especially if something serious is going on with him. We should wait.

Maki: Yuuji already gave us the greenlight, right? And honestly? This might be our only chance to get on it. It could even help us figure out what's happening with Yuuji, Right?

Shoko: Guys, let's not make any rash decisions. Why don't we just meet up tonight? Same place. We can talk then and see if Yuuji finally replies.

One by one, the others responded, a blur of "Okay," thumbs-up emojis, and "see you there" messages. Satoru didn't say anything for a moment, just stared at the screen, a new, cold clarity washing over him. He typed slowly, each word a deliberate choice.

😎 Let’s ditch the usual spot. Got a new place I wanna try. Trust me, you'll like it. Sending the location now

And hit send.

---—--------------

Sukuna’s part-time job routine had become a quiet kind of survival. 

Most evenings, right after classes ended, he’d head straight to the small 24-hour minimarket tucked into a corner near his apartment. His shift started at six. The place was narrow, always a little too bright under flickering fluorescent lights, and smelled faintly of instant noodles and lemon-scented disinfectant. He usually manned the register, restocked shelves, and handled the trash runs. Routine. Mindless. Tolerable.

The minimarket was only a ten, maybe fifteen-minute walk from Sukuna’s apartment. Close enough that he never bothered taking the train—just pulled on a hoodie, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked the quiet side streets without thinking. The same chipped pavement. The same rusted vending machines humming outside old shuttered stores. Familiar. Boring. Predictable.

He showed up at 5:55 PM like always, pushing through the sliding glass door with that dull chime overhead—and barely had time to clock in before the manager called him out.

“You’re not working today. Or any other day. Don’t come back.”

The words hit sharp, even though he’d kind of seen it coming. Sukuna paused mid-step, blinking once, hands still in his pockets.

“You disappear for a week without a word, and now you think you can just show up like nothing happened?” the man snapped. His tone was loud enough that the lone customer by the magazine rack glanced over. “I gave you a chance, even when you walked in looking like a damn prison escapee.”

Sukuna said nothing. Just stared at the man blankly. He’d heard worse. The manager scoffed again, “Figures. I should’ve listened to my gut. Those tattoos, that face—knew you were trouble from day one. The only reason I hired you was after that robbery last year. Figured you’d scare people off. Guess you can’t even do that right. Just go. We’re done.”

And that was that. Sukuna didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue. What was the point?

He turned around, walked back out, and let the sliding door close behind him. The chime sounded too cheerful for the moment.

Sukuna took a deep breath—filling his lungs completely—then exhaled slowly.

After successfully forcing Uraume to stay put at the apartment earlier, and threatening to kick him out if he dared follow Sukuna to work, he finally felt like he could breathe a little.

As much as Sukuna appreciated having him around, it was suffocating. Always being watched, always having someone hovering nearby—it wore him down. Especially since Uraume still acted like his personal bodyguard—which could be a real problem if he started trailing Sukuna to his jobs, it’d only cause more problems.

By the time the sky turned deep orange, Sukuna had already crossed the canal road and was walking toward Shigure—the old izakaya tucked in between a tiny antique store and a shuttered stationery shop. The restaurant sat on a quiet corner just off the main street, its wooden façade aged but well-maintained, with a faded red noren hanging above the door and the faint smell of broth already drifting out through the vents.

Shigure had always looked like it belonged to another time—warm amber lights glowing behind frosted glass, handwritten menu boards outside with bits of calligraphy curling at the edges, and a creaky wooden floor that groaned softly whenever someone walked too fast. Inside, the walls were lined with family photos, newspaper clippings, and yellowing sake posters from decades ago. A small radio played music—mostly jazz— in the background, barely louder than the clatter of bowls and the low murmur of regulars hunched over drinks.

Sukuna slowed as he approached. He didn’t expect much these days. Especially not kindness. After all, he had just been fired that same afternoon. But Shigure wasn’t like the minimarket.

At least, not completely.

He still remembered the first time he walked through this door—hoodie up, eyes lowered, hands in his pockets. Back then, he had just been looking for something— anything —that paid cash and didn’t ask too many questions. Mr. Takahashi had taken one look at him and immediately muttered something about “bad image” and “scaring off the customers.” But it was Mrs. Takahashi who had waved him in. Said they could use the help. Smiling warmer than his mom ever did.

They were short-staffed, she’d explained. Their children had all gone off to chase office jobs or their own lives—none of them wanted to inherit the restaurant. The youngest son helped now and then, but mostly just when he felt like it. And their two grandkids—just out of high school—were more interested in their phones than soy sauce measurements.

So, Sukuna stayed. Started with deliveries. Quiet work. Easy to ignore. But soon, he was bussing tables too. Carrying trays. Mopping floors. Sometimes even standing behind the counter during late-night rushes. He never smiled. Never talked much. But he worked hard.

The ramen here was what people came for. Miso broth boiled for hours, hand-rolled noodles, and chashu so tender it nearly melted. Business picked up around 7 PM and didn’t stop until well past midnight—especially on weekends. Office workers came in for drinks. Students ordered takeout. The regulars never needed menus.

Sukuna stepped inside.

Warm air hit his face, thick with soy, smoke, and something frying in the back kitchen. The familiar clang of dishes. The hum of the fridge. Mrs. Takahashi’s voice shouting an order across the room. A pair of old men laughed at the counter, chopsticks clinking against sake cups. The smell alone almost unclenched the tension in his shoulders.

He muttered a quiet “I’m here,” as he passed the curtain.

Mrs. Takahashi barely looked up from where she was slicing scallions.  “Oh, thank Kami-sama you’re here. Put your stuff in the back. You’re doing delivery tonight. And maybe tables if Haru skips again. Today’s gonna be busy.”

Sukuna gave a soft nod and headed to the back room. Still no lecture. Still no “where the hell were you all week?”

He didn’t know if she was ignoring it, or waiting. Either way, she didn’t fire him.

Mr. Takahashi grunted a vague greeting from the kitchen as Sukuna passed, flipping gyoza on the grill. Their youngest son—Kenta—was serving food to the table in the farthest corner. And the grandkids—Haru and Hiro—probably in the stockroom, trying to avoid everything as usual. Shigure was loud tonight. But for some reason, that made it easier to breathe. He grabbed his delivery apron, tied it with one hand, and moved to deliver the orders.

The door chime rang again, and Mrs. Takahashi handed him two plastic bags filled with ramen and side dishes, meant for an apartment behind the station. Sukuna just nodded, took them without a word. His movements were fast, practiced—he knew the drill, knew the route.

Outside, the night air had turned crisp, cutting but clean. The puddles from the afternoon light rain still shimmered under the soft glow of streetlamps, and his white sneakers made dull splashes against the wet pavement. The bags swung gently at his side with each step.

His stride was light tonight because Shigure hadn’t turned him away. Not like the others. Not yet, anyway. He didn’t expect it to last forever—he wasn’t stupid—but just having a place that still let him show up, still gave him something to do, something to earn, that was something. At least he wouldn’t fall behind on rent. At least there was one door that didn’t shut on him today.

That was enough for now. No big dreams. No wishful thinking. Just enough to keep going. And tonight, even if the air was cold, the road ahead felt just a little easier to walk.

-----—------------

Megumi pushed open the wooden sliding door, the warm scent of broth, soy, and grilled fish washing over him almost immediately.

Inside, the lighting was soft and golden, the kind that made shadows fall gently instead of sharply. The walls were lined with old photographs—black-and-white shots of the street outside from decades ago, framed newspaper clippings, and yellowed calligraphy scrolls tucked behind glass. A faint hiss came from the kitchen in the back, along with the quiet hum of jazz playing from a small speaker near the counter. Not the modern kind—something older, softer, like it was coming from vinyl.

The place wasn’t big—maybe six small tables and a long wooden bar—but it felt lived-in. Comfortable. The kind of restaurant where the chairs didn’t match but no one cared, where you could still smell the tatami in the back booths, and where the waitress already knew what kind of tea you liked after two visits.

Megumi slid into the booth by the far window, nodding at Yuta who was already nursing a hot drink. Nobara and Maki were seated across from him, Maki leaning back with her arms crossed, Nobara furiously scrolling on her phone like she was ready to fight it. Haibara waved from the bar while chatting with Shoko and Utahime, who both looked like they’d come straight from campus but hadn’t taken their coats off yet.

“Satoru?” Megumi asked.

“Late, obviously,” Nobara muttered without looking up. “Probably flirting with someone on the way.”

“He said he’s coming soon,” Yuta added. “He texted me like ten minutes ago.”

Megumi didn’t reply. He glanced around the restaurant instead, taking in the small details—stacked ceramic bowls behind the counter, the faded curtain separating the kitchen from the dining area, a delivery bag propped up in the corner. He didn’t recognize the place. None of them had been here before, but Yuta swore the food was good and quiet enough for them to talk without worrying about being overheard.

It was… nicer than Megumi expected. Not fancy—just real . Like it belonged to someone who actually gave a damn about it. Someone who cleaned the windows themselves and wiped down the chopstick holders at night.

Shoko raised her cup. “Can we order or are we waiting for Gojo?”

“Order. He’ll eat whatever’s left,” Maki said.

Megumi nodded slightly, but his mind wasn’t really on the food. The room buzzed gently with conversation. But under it, there was still that tension—thin, stretched tight. Yuuji hadn’t replied to anyone all day.

Megumi sat at the end of the wooden table, the chatter of his friends mixing with the hum of the izakaya around them. The air smelled of grilled fish, soy sauce, and something rich simmering from the kitchen, but his appetite was nowhere to be found.

Fifteen minutes later the server arrived, balancing a large wooden tray laden with steaming bowls and small plates. The dishes landed on the table, filling the air with a wave of rich, savory aroma.

A deep bowl of miso ramen sat in front of Yuta, the broth a deep amber, crowned with two thick slices of chashu pork, perfectly marbled and slightly charred at the edges. The noodles glistened as the steam rose, carrying the scent of slow-boiled miso and garlic. Maki’s order came in a black lacquered bowl—spicy tantanmen , the broth a vivid red-orange, topped with minced pork, chopped scallions, and a swirl of sesame paste that gave off a nutty warmth. Haibara and Shoko shared a plate of gyoza, the golden-brown dumplings arranged in a neat crescent, their crisp bottoms contrasting with the soft, juicy filling. A small dish of vinegar and chili oil sat between them, the surface trembling whenever the table shifted. Nanami and Utahime, ever the minimalist, had ordered a simple shio ramen—clear broth, pale noodles, a single slice of pork, and a handful of nori sheets folded neatly against the side. Nobara had gone for variety: a half-sized bowl of tonkotsu ramen with creamy white broth, plus two skewers of yakitori glazed with a sweet soy reduction. She was already tearing into one, the meat still sizzling from the grill.

Megumi’s own bowl sat untouched in front of him—shoyu ramen with thin, curly noodles and a soft-boiled egg that was perfectly halved, its yolk still molten. A small side plate of pickled daikon rested beside it, its sharp, tangy scent cutting through the heaviness of the broth.

The table was alive with motion—chopsticks clacking, steam swirling, broth being slurped without shame. The food looked good. Smelled even better. The others had already started eating—Nobara teasing Haibara over the way he poured her tea, Yuta quietly sliding the last dumpling toward Maki, Nanami making an offhand comment about the draft beer being better here than last time. It should’ve felt normal, comfortable. But Megumi kept glancing at his phone lying face down beside his plate. But the knot in Megumi’s stomach made it feel like chewing would be impossible.

His phone stayed face-up by his bowl, unread messages sitting like a weight in his chest. Still nothing from Yuuji. Still no reply from Ijichi either. Calls went straight to voicemail. Messages sat unread.

He’d tried not to let it show, tried to be present with the others while they talked about the festival preparations and random campus gossip. But every few seconds, his mind drifted back—to Yuuji, to the conversation with Gojo about the Ryoumen family, to Yuuji’s face that night when the subject came up.

And to the thing Megumi hadn’t told him.

He told himself it was for Yuuji’s sake, that the timing hadn’t been right, that maybe it wasn’t his place to say anything. But it gnawed at him all the same. The weight of it pressed in every time Sukuna’s name came up—every time he thought about the way the man looked at Yuuji, or didn’t.

The voices around him blurred into background noise. Steam curled lazily from the ramen bowls, drifting past his line of sight without pulling him in. The others laughed at something Nobara said, the sound blending with the clink of glasses from another table. Megumi didn’t join in. He kept his eyes on the condensation sliding down his untouched glass of water, feeling that familiar knot tighten in his chest again. There was a part of the story Yuuji didn’t know yet. And Megumi wasn’t sure what would happen when he finally told Yuuji.

Then, a violent buzz cut through the haze, his phone rattling against the dark wood of the table. The sound was so sharp, so intrusive, it felt like a crack appearing in the fabric of the room.

The name on the screen—Ijichi—snapped everything into piercing focus.

That was all it took. The laughter died instantly, choked off mid-breath. Nobara’s chopsticks, laden with noodles, froze halfway to her mouth. Yuta, who had been listening quietly, went completely still. Even Maki, who seemed immune to most drama, set her chopsticks down with a soft, deliberate click . In a fraction of a second, seven pairs of eyes swiveled from the phone to him.

Megumi’s throat felt dry. He answered on the second ring, pressing the phone to his ear with a hand that felt strangely heavy. “Ijichi?”

They couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but they could read the conversation in the grim tableau of Megumi’s face. They watched his brows pull tight, his shoulders becoming rigid under his dark hoodie. They saw the faint, hard lines forming at the corners of his mouth, the subtle clenching of his jaw. Whatever Ijichi was saying, it was a steady drip of bad news, and Megumi was absorbing every drop.

No one spoke. No one touched their food. The rich steam from the ramen now seemed cloying, the aroma sickening. They just waited, the air growing thick and heavy with unspoken dread.

The faint chime of the restaurant’s bell was the only sound that broke the spell. A gust of cooler night air swept in, carrying the distant rumble of city traffic. And with it came Gojo Satoru.

He moved with a lazy, liquid grace, a stark contrast to the table’s frozen tension. He wore a pair of ridiculously expensive sunglasses despite the warm, dim lighting of the shop. A loose, oversized white button-down was untucked over black slacks, sleeves carelessly rolled to his elbows, revealing a sliver of a thin silver chain at his collarbone. His snow-white hair was a chaotic halo, and he wore that signature, smug half-grin that always made you wonder what kind of trouble he’d just caused.

Spotting them, he raised a hand in a casual wave. But the grin faltered as he drew closer, the playful energy draining from his posture as he registered the atmosphere. He slid into the empty seat beside Maki, his movements now slower, more deliberate. His blue eyes, sharp even behind the dark lenses, narrowed. "What'd I miss?" His voice was light, but it landed with a thud in the silence.

No one answered. Every gaze remained locked on Megumi, whose knuckles were turning white from his grip on the phone. The tension was a living thing now, a taut wire pulled between all of them.

The seconds stretched, each one a painful, drawn-out eternity. Finally, Megumi’s thumb pressed the screen, ending the call. He placed the phone face down on the table with a quiet finality, but he didn’t speak. His dark eyes were fixed on the swirling grain of the wood, lost somewhere far away.

It was Gojo who broke the silence, his voice stripped of its earlier flippancy. “So?”

Megumi’s gaze lifted, sweeping over them without really seeing anyone. His voice, when it came, was low and raspy, as if scraped from a dry throat. His voice was low and flat. “Ijichi doesn’t know where Yuuji is. They talked yesterday and..” Megumi paused, as if his throat had tightened just before he could speak again, “And Yuuji got upset, then just left. Didn’t take his phone. Hasn’t been reachable since.”

He paused again, the muscles in his jaw working. “Ijichi’s still looking. He said he’ll let me know the moment there’s news.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it was the kind that settled deep, making the ramen steam between them feel strangely out of place.

After a while, the table fell into a strange stillness—each of them tucked into their own thoughts, turning over the same questions about Yuuji, worrying in quiet isolation. It was Gojo who finally broke the heavy air. He leaned back in his seat, voice lighter than the mood allowed. “Come on, guys, don’t look so grim. I’m sure Yuuji’s fine. Yeah, he’s a little reckless, but we all know he’s a responsible kid. He can take care of himself.”

The words worked like a small crack in the wall; the tension didn’t disappear, but it eased just enough for people to breathe again.

Shoko gave a slow nod, her voice calm. “Yeah. Let’s just wait for news from Ijichi. Whatever it is, maybe Yuuji just wants some time alone. Let's give him that.”

Haibara looked around the table, his usual casual tone edged with hesitation. “So… that means we’re not going ahead with the plan to get closer to Sukuna, right? Not with things like this.”

Nobara leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “No. We stick to the original plan. We’re doing this for Yuuji, remember? He already agreed before. Him disappearing now… doesn’t that make it even more of a reason to talk to Sukuna?”

Maki nodded in agreement. “Exactly. If anything, this might give us more to work with?”

A fresh wave of tension rippled through the group. The rest of the table exchanged glances. No one jumped in right away—there was a collective hesitation, the kind that hung in the air when you knew a decision wasn’t entirely yours to make.

Then, almost at the same time, their eyes shifted to Megumi. After all, he was Yuuji’s boyfriend.

Megumi didn’t answer. Instead, with a sharp, scraping sound, he pushed his chair back and stood up, grabbing his phone from the table. His expression was hard to pin down—anger, worry, the kind of restraint that came from holding himself back from snapping.

“Do whatever you want,” he said flatly, before turning and walking out.

No one tried to stop him. They didn’t need to; they all understood. He was worried, but also angry—frustrated at not knowing where Yuuji was, and maybe even more upset that Ijichi had not told him what was really going on.

They’d never seen Yuuji without Megumi before. The two were inseparable. And now, watching Megumi walk out alone, it hit them just how much this absence cut deeper for him than for anyone else at the table.

No one spoke for a long while after the door swung shut behind him. The muted clatter of dishes from the kitchen felt out of place against the tight silence at their table.

----—-------------

Chapter Text

------------------

When Yuuji’s eyes slowly fluttered open, he was swallowed whole by an oppressive, heavy darkness. It clung to the air, thicker than any midnight he'd ever known. His body felt like a lead weight, his t-shirt a second skin of clammy discomfort. He wasn’t just hot; he was burning from the inside out, a restless heat that had seeped into his bones. 

He pushed himself up, his head swimming in a fog of disorientation. For a split second, he reached for his phone on the nightstand, a reflexive motion to check the time, to anchor himself in the familiar. His hand met empty space, and he remembered the jarring truth—he’d left it behind. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet made contact with the shockingly cool floor, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body. Sweat trickled down his back, a cold ribbon against his heated skin, as he made his way to the air conditioner. The room remained a void until he flicked the light switch, and the sudden, harsh brightness of the overhead bulb made him squint, a physical pain in his eyes. He’d forgotten, in the haze of his arrival, that he'd explicitly told the Akira-san to leave, to keep his presence a secret. It made sense now why the entire house felt so lifeless, so abandoned. There was no warm glow spilling from a hallway lamp, no gentle hum of the kitchen light. Just a deafening, suffocating silence.

After starting up the AC, breathing cold air into the stale room, Yuuji stepped out, drawn by a throat so parched it ached. Every swallow felt like sandpaper. He padded down the stairs, flicking on lights as he went, the sound of his own steps a foreign intrusion, illuminating the path as he went. A faint, forgotten smell of dust and disuse greeted him in the kitchen. He opened the fridge door, revealing a cavernous emptiness save for a few forgotten bottles of water. It wasn't a surprise. This house had been a ghost for years, kept alive just enough to prevent its ruin.

He chugged the tap water from the sink, the liquid a shock to his system, and felt a tiny piece of himself settle. A shower was the next logical step, a way to wash away the lingering unease and the oppressive heat. For some reason he couldn't name, his feet didn't carry him back to his old room. They simply took him to Sukuna's.

The bathroom felt exactly as it always had— simple, stark, but with a strange kind of order. After he’d scrubbed the stickiness from his skin, he stepped out, still damp, and stood before Sukuna's wardrobe. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the door. He could feel the weight of what was inside, a collection of memories in fabric. He opened it slowly.

Almost all of Sukuna’s clothes were still there, hanging like silent sentinels. A sharp, twisting ache bloomed in Yuuji’s chest. He reached in, his fingers brushing over the soft material, and lifted each shirt and jacket. He saw them all as he remembered them—Sukuna in his worn-out band t-shirt, the way that one black jacket seemed to fit his shoulders like it was made just for him, how another shirt was thrown on carelessly as if it meant nothing at all, yet Yuuji remembered it perfectly.

The cold air from the AC drifted in, raising goosebumps on his arms. The daze he was in shattered, and he quickly started rummaging for something to wear. He found a black hoodie and a pair of drawstring shorts that he knew would still fit him. Pulling them on, the fabric felt both like a shield and a shroud—a familiar comfort and an unbearable heaviness all at once.

Dressed now in Sukuna’s hoodie and shorts, Yuuji padded quietly through the hall. His hair was still damp from the shower, leaving faint drops along the wood floor as he made his way downstairs.

He didn’t stop at the living room, though his eyes caught the familiar shape of the couch, the old low table, the faint outline of picture frames still hanging on the wall. His feet carried him to the far side of the house—toward the master bedroom.

His parents’ room.

It was on the ground floor, near the back garden, tucked beside the family room. The door creaked softly when he pushed it open, the sound echoing far too loud in the stillness.

The air inside was stale, with a faint, almost forgotten trace of his mother’s perfume—just enough to make something twist in his chest. The bed was neatly made, but the sheets were clearly untouched for years.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. For a long moment, he didn’t move. His eyes trailed over every detail—the wooden dresser lined with old photographs, the lamp that used to be his father’s reading light, the corner chair his mother always left her cardigan draped over.

Everything was the same. And yet, it wasn’t.

Yuuji walked to the dresser, fingertips brushing over the frame of a photo—his parents on a summer trip, smiling like the world had never been cruel to his son. He traced the glass absentmindedly, the silence pressing heavier with every breath. His gaze drifted slowly around the room. Eyes landed on several picture frames standing in neat rows. He stepped closer, scanning each one.

Every frame held something familiar—his parents smiling on trips, his grandfather holding a much younger Yuuji, a family gathering in the garden. But not a single one had Sukuna in it. Not even in the background.

It felt like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed. Hard.

He stood there for a long moment, forcing himself to breathe evenly, to keep from collapsing under the weight pressing in on him again. The sting behind his eyes was sharp, but he swallowed it down. Not now.

He turned to the wardrobe, opening it with a quiet click. The faint smell of cedar drifted out. Methodically, he began searching—sliding open drawers, checking the shelves, even reaching into the corners.

One by one, he went through every compartment in the room.

In the top drawers, he found his father’s old work documents—contracts, letters, neatly bound reports. In a lower compartment, a stack of photo albums, their covers worn from years of use. Inside, more of the same—family outings, celebrations, candid shots of his parents and grandfather. But again, no Sukuna. No hint of his mother’s family. No piece of the missing history he had come here to find.

By the time he closed the last drawer, the truth sat heavier in his stomach: whatever answers he was looking for, they weren’t here.

Yuuji sat on the floor, surrounded by the mess he’d made in his parents’ room—drawers yanked open, stacks of paper spilling over, photo albums lying at odd angles. His chest felt tight, the silence pressing in on him.

If nothing was here… where else could he look?

The question gnawed at him until a sudden thought hit—Grandfather. If anyone had kept something, anything, about their family, it would be him.

Yuuji shot to his feet, crossed the hall, and slid open the door to his grandfather’s room. The air inside was cooler, tinged with the faint, musty scent of old wood.

He didn’t waste time. Just like in his parents’ room, he went straight for the drawers, pulling them open one by one. Old clothes neatly folded, stacks of letters bound with brittle string, worn notebooks filled with slanted handwriting—he rifled through them all. He searched the small cabinet in the corner, flipped through binders, even checked the hidden compartment at the back of the desk.

It was the same result.

Yuuji sank down on the floor, legs heavy, shoulders slumped. The mess of papers and open drawers surrounded him like the aftermath of a storm, but all he felt was the stillness pressing in.

Hours seemed to slip by as he sat there, running in circles inside his own head. If it wasn’t here, then where? Who else could he even ask? The staff wouldn’t know—he doubted they’d ever been told anything important.

He pressed his palms into his face, forcing his mind to keep working. And then it hit him.

A family like theirs—his parents, his grandfather—they wouldn’t just keep everything in drawers. People like them didn’t leave anything out in the open. They’d have a safe. Of course they would.

The thought jolted him upright. He started searching the room again, this time not for papers, but for places where a safe could be hidden. He checked behind the closet doors, felt along the walls for hollow spaces, pulled back the tatami to inspect the floor.

And there it was—beneath the floorboards, hidden under a woven tatami mat—Yuuji found a safe.

A small, tired smile tugged at his lips. Finally, after tearing apart nearly every inch of the room, here it was.

Still catching his breath from the hours of searching, he crouched down and brushed the dust from its surface. His fingers hovered over the dial for a moment, pulse quickening.

He tried his grandfather’s birthday first. No luck.

Then his father’s. Still nothing.

Last, he keyed in his own birthday. Then there was a faint, mechanical click. The door eased open.

Yuuji stared at it for a moment, caught between relief and a sudden, tight knot in his chest—because whatever was inside, he wasn’t sure he was ready to see.

—--------------------

Yuuji slumped on the floor, this time not in his grandfather’s room, but on the floor of his parents’ bedroom.

The adrenaline from earlier had already dulled into a flat, heavy disappointment. The safe in his grandfather’s room hadn’t given him what he wanted—just stacks of asset documents, property deeds, and a will detailing how wealth would be split. Things he couldn’t care less about. Not when he was looking for answers, not money. He’d shut it and walked out without a second glance.

Now, in his parents’ room, he searched the same spot on the floor—half out of hope, half out of stubbornness. Sure enough, just like before, there was a panel hidden beneath the tatami on the floor. The wood felt colder here, the air heavier.

Pulling the mat aside, he found another safe.

The sight of it made something flicker in his chest—anticipation laced with dread. His fingers rested on the cold metal, mind running ahead of him. If his grandfather’s safe had been so empty of meaning, what were the chances this one would be different?

Still… he had to try.

But unlike his grandfather’s safe, which had opened with his own birthday, this one didn’t give in so easily. Yuuji tried his birthday first—nothing. His father’s. His mother’s. Still nothing.

For a moment, he hesitated before entering Sukuna’s birthday, a tiny thread of hope tugging in his chest. Maybe… maybe they’d set it to that. But when the dial stopped and the lock stayed firm, the hope dissolved into the same hollow frustration that had been building all day. It didn’t even budge. The metal stayed cold and silent beneath his hands, as if mocking him.

His jaw clenched. Fine. If it wouldn’t open nicely, he’d force it.

He stalked to the kitchen, yanking drawers open until he found a hammer, a pair of pliers, and anything else that looked remotely useful. Back in to the bedroom, he set to work—striking the edges, trying to pry at the seam, testing the hinges. The dull, stubborn metal refused to give, every hit echoing dully in the empty house.

By the time he stopped, his arms ached and his breath came rough. The safe sat there, unmarked, like it hadn’t even noticed his effort.

Yuuji dropped down beside it, running a hand over his face. The room was dim and still, the quiet broken only by the faint hum of the AC down the hall. At this hour, there was no locksmith to call, no one to magically open it for him.

It was just him, the unmovable safe, and a growing weight in his chest that he couldn’t shake.

—------------------

Night had settled over the city, the distant hum of traffic rising and falling like a low tide. From Sukuna’s apartment balcony, the streets below looked hazy under the yellow glow of streetlamps. Uraume leaned against the railing, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, the faint curl of smoke drifting into the cool night air. Behind him, the apartment was quiet—empty, except for Yoru. The cat still watched Uraume warily from a distance, tail flicking with the kind of cautious hostility only a pet could muster toward a stranger who had yet to earn its trust.

Sukuna had left for work earlier that evening, shutting the door with that clipped finality that meant he’d already made up his mind. Uraume had tried—more than once—to insist on coming along. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, and watching his back had always been second nature. But Sukuna wasn’t having it.

“Follow me, and you can pack your bags,” he’d said, the warning in his voice leaving no room for argument. Uraume knew Sukuna meant it. He wasn’t bluffing. So he’d stepped back, swallowing the instinct to push harder, and let him go.

Now, phone pressed to his ear, Uraume’s voice was low, the kind that carried weight. Whoever was on the other end, this wasn’t a casual conversation. His eyes stayed fixed on the skyline, the ember at the tip of the cigarette flaring each time he took a drag.

His brow tightened as the voice on the other end kept talking. He took another slow drag from the cigarette, exhaling hard through their nose before replying, “That’s not the point,” Uraume said evenly, though there was an edge under the calm.

The reply came quick, sharp enough that Uraume’s free hand curled loosely at their side. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? I’m telling you, this isn’t the right time.”

The voice on the other end pushed back, faster now, their words overlapping. Uraume’s gaze dropped to the street below, jaw tightening. “You’re not the one here,” they cut in, tone colder. “You’re not the one looking at him every day, seeing how he’s living. If you were, you’d understand why I’m saying this.”

Another pause—just long enough for the cigarette to burn down another centimeter between his fingers. Uraume tapped the ash over the railing, his expression unreadable in the dark. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, cigarette dangling precariously between two fingers as the voice on the other end pushed, sharp and relentless.

“I told you,” Uraume said, his tone clipped but controlled, “now is not the right time. He’s just gotten back to a routine—”

“That’s exactly why we can’t wait,” the voice snapped back, loud enough that Uraume had to pull the phone slightly from their ear.

He let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing toward the dark skyline. “If I tell him now, he’ll shut us down. You know he will. I’m not risking it. Not yet.”

“You’ve been saying ‘not yet’ for months, almost a year, Uraume,” the voice shot back. “We’ve already delayed because he ran off. We can’t keep stalling. You know we can’t.”

Uraume flicked ash over the railing, his movements sharp. “And I’m telling you, forcing it will blow everything apart before we even start. I need him to be ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the voice countered, firm and unyielding. “He just needs to know and do his job. And you need to stop protecting him from this.”

The muscles in Uraume’s jaw tightened. “It's my job,” they said quietly, almost like a warning. “And i need him to be ready for this. And if you can’t understand that, then maybe you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to.”

The line went silent for a beat, tension hanging heavy in the air, before the voice came back, colder than before: “You have until the end of this month. After that, I’ll make sure he hears it from me.”

Uraume didn’t answer right away. He took one last drag, exhaled slowly into the night, and hung up without a goodbye.

—------------------

Yuuji sat slumped on the floor beside the unmovable safe, sweat cooling on his skin. His arms ached, his stomach felt hollow, and the faint hum of the house only made the emptiness louder.

A soft knock came from the front door. “Yuuji-kun?”

He looked up, recognizing the voice instantly. “Akira-san?”

Yuuji pushed himself up from the floor, rubbing a hand over his face before stepping out into the dim hallway. The house was quiet except for the faint creak of the floorboards under his feet. He made his way toward the front door, following the muted sound of movement outside.

The caretaker open the door just enough to peer inside, his brow lifting when he saw Yuuji on the floor. “I thought I heard noise down here. I brought you something to eat.”

Relieved for an excuse to step away from the safe, Yuuji followed him to the kitchen.

Akira set a cloth-wrapped bundle on the table before slipping off his jacket. “Let me just tidy up a bit while you eat,” he said, already heading toward the main bedrooms. 

Akira slid the door to the master bedroom open, intending to step inside—only to stop short. It didn’t take long before Yuuji heard a low, startled exhale from down the hall. 

“What on earth…” his gaze falling on the mess inside the bedroom. 

The room was a mess. Drawers pulled halfway out, papers scattered across the floor, the once tidy space overturned as if a storm had passed through. His brows drew together for a moment, the quiet shock settling in before his gaze shifted past the room.

From where he stood, he could see down the hall into the kitchen. Yuuji was there, seated at the table, head bent as he fumbled with the knot of the cloth bundle Akira had brought. The warm light over the table carved his figure out of the dimness of the rest of the house, the mess behind Akira contrasting sharply with the stillness of the boy in that small, bright circle.

Akira lingered in the doorway, eyes moving once more over the scattered contents of the bedroom before stepping back into the hall. Looking both concerned and faintly amused. “So, you’ve been busy.”

Yuuji rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I was looking for something.”

Akira-san’s eyes lingered on Yuuji a moment longer than usual, as if measuring the weight he carried. Then, with a faint sigh, he turned and walked toward the dining table.

He had known Yuuji since before the boy was even born. He’d been with the Itadori family long enough to watch them at their best and their worst. When Yuuji’s parents and grandfather passed away—one after another—and Yuuji decided to move to Tokyo with Ijichi and the others, the duty of looking after the Sendai house had fallen to Akira.

Along with a small team of other staff, he kept the house standing: locked, safe, and cleaned just enough to keep the dust from claiming it entirely.

He didn’t know what Yuuji was looking for, and he didn’t ask. He was just a staff. This—whatever it was—was a family matter. And while the Itadoris had always treated him kindly, he understood that families like theirs, with old names and powerful connections, often carried complications that outsiders were better off not stepping into.

Akira had no interest in getting tangled in those knots. They both sat at the table as Yuuji unwrapped the bundle—warm rice, grilled mackerel, pickled vegetables, and a small container of miso soup. The smell alone made his stomach twist in hunger.

While Yuuji ate, he asked what he’d been wanting to all day—if Akira knew anything about his mother’s family, about Sukuna, about the things no one had ever told him.

But Akira only shook his head. “I’ve worked for the Itadoris for decades, but my job was the house. The rest… they never spoke of it.”

Yuuji lowered his gaze, the answer both expected and frustrating.

“Tomorrow morning,” Akira added, “I’ll help you find a locksmith for that safe. We’ll see if there’s anything in it worth all this trouble.”

The promise loosened something tight in Yuuji’s chest. He nodded, finally letting himself eat in earnest. The food was simple, but warm, and for the first time that night, the heaviness in his stomach was something other than dread.

When the last of the miso soup was gone, Yuuji thanked Akira-san and carried the dishes to the sink. His body felt heavy, the exhaustion pressing into his bones. Without thinking too much about it, his steps carried him back upstairs—straight to Sukuna’s room.

He’d sleep here again tonight.

Part of it was comfort—this room still smelled faintly like him—but another part was the quiet reminder that he hadn’t searched it yet. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, he’d start looking here too. Maybe Sukuna had hidden something. But tonight, he was too drained to start.

His eyes wandered to the shelf near the bed, where a black vintage Walkman sat. Sukuna’s favorite. Yuuji picked it up, turning it over in his hands, a small pang of guilt hitting him. How had he forgotten to bring this?

He pressed the play button and heard the faint click of the cassette inside. Whatever tape was in here, it might have been the last thing Sukuna listened to.

For a second, he thought about falling asleep with it, letting whatever Sukuna had heard play into his own ears. But when he searched the room for headphones, none were anywhere in sight.

He let out a quiet sigh and set the Walkman back on the nightstand.

Tomorrow. He’d find the headphones tomorrow.

For now, he lay back on Sukuna’s bed, arms folded loosely across his stomach, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted, trying to imagine what it was like to be Sukuna—to live behind the walls Yuuji had never been able to cross.

And with that thought lingering in his chest, he finally closed his eyes.

—------------------

In a dim apartment at the edge of Tokyo, a man lowered his phone, thumb lingering over the screen as the line went dead.

The place wasn’t much—three cramped rooms, the smell of cigarette smoke and ink clinging to the air—but every surface spoke of purpose. A folding table served as his desk, crowded with loose papers, printed reports, and an open laptop that still hummed with heat. Along one wall, a whiteboard stood covered in scribbles and pinned notes, maps layered with colored strings connecting points across the city. On another, a corkboard sagged under the weight of newspaper clippings, official documents, and photographs—all orbiting one name.

The family crest of the Ryoumen clan stared back at him from half a dozen pinned sheets, marked through with heavy black ink. At the center, however, the focus was clear. Not the family itself, but the man currently pulling its strings.

He leaned back in his chair, the light from the desk lamp cutting across the sharp line of his jaw, the dark curtain of hair tied loosely behind his head. His long frame was folded easily into the cheap chair, yet there was nothing casual in the way he sat—his shoulders carried tension that never eased, his eyes never softening even in solitude.

For a long moment, he just stared at the board, the cigarette burning between his fingers untouched. 

----------------------

Chapter Text

--------------------

Choso sat behind the wheel, the low hum of the engine filling the silence as the road stretched endlessly ahead. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard — fifteen more minutes and he’d be in Sendai, pulling up to Yuuji’s old house.

Five days. It had been five whole days without a single word from Yuuji, and Choso’s patience had worn thin. Or maybe it wasn’t even his own patience — it was his ears. If he had to listen to Nobara complain and curse about Yuuji disappearing one more time, he swore his head might split in two.

That’s what finally pushed him to act. He wasn’t the type to meddle, not unless it mattered. But this was Yuuji. He matters. And after piecing together what he’d heard from Ijichi and Nobara, the path pointed to only one place. Connect the dots, and the answer was obvious: Yuuji had come back here. Back to Sendai.

Sendai carried a strange weight to Choso. It had been years since he last visited, yet the faint familiarity crept in as the scenery rolled past his windows. Nostalgia always struck him in unexpected ways — the smell of fresh-cut grass, the way the air felt sharper here than in Tokyo. He didn’t remember much about his aunt — Yuuji’s mother — except that she always seemed a little strange to him. Quiet, distant in a way he couldn’t explain. 

It was strange, Choso thought, how different mothers could be. His own mother — stern, sharp-tongued, often described as intimidating — had never once frightened him. Her voice could scold, her hands could push, but beneath it there was warmth, a certainty that she was his shield. With Yuuji’s mother, though, it was different. She was quiet, gentle in manner, always doting on her son. And yet… something about her aura unsettled Choso, even when he was only a boy. It was as if the silence around her pressed too close, like the weight of unsaid things. She loved Yuuji fiercely, though. It’s just something about her that had unsettled him back then, leaving a faint shadow of unease.

His memories of their summer visits blurred together: short stays, never more than a couple of days. But he remembered the backyard clearly — the stretch of lawn where he, Yuuji, and Sukuna would play soccer until dusk. Yuuji always lit up, chasing the ball with endless energy. Sukuna, on the other hand, hated it. He’d give in only for Yuuji’s sake, playing until his patience finally snapped and he stormed off, declaring he was done. The image of Yuuji left panting and laughing in the grass, and Sukuna scowling as if he’d been forced to endure torture, still made Choso’s chest tighten with something complicated.

The last time he’d been here was when he was seventeen, before his family moved to Kyoto. And Yuuji was fifteen. The memory came back in flashes, vivid despite the years. He and Yuuji had been sitting beneath the sakura tree at the far edge of the backyard, its branches heavy with late spring blossoms. Pale pink petals drifted down with every breeze, clinging to their hair and shoulders, scattering across the grass like confetti. The air was warm, the kind of day where the sun had started its slow dip, and the whole yard was painted in gold and rose.

From where they sat, Choso could see the kitchen window of the house. Yuuji’s parents were inside, their voices faint, calm, carrying the rhythm of casual conversation. The clink of teacups. The sound of chairs shifting. Everything is so painfully ordinary.

And then Yuuji told him. About Sukuna. About how he was gone.

Yuuji’s voice cracked as he spoke, trembling between grief and anger, trying to string the story together from pieces of memory and confusion. His hands clenched in the grass, pulling up roots as though he could anchor himself. Choso could feel the pain bleeding through every word, raw and jagged, but when his eyes lifted toward the house, he saw nothing in Yuuji’s parents’ faces that mirrored it. No anguish. No desperation. Just two adults chatting over tea as though nothing had shattered inside their family.

That contrast lodged itself deep in Choso’s chest. The sight of Yuuji’s heart breaking under the sakura tree, and the image of parents who looked untouched by the storm.

His own parents didn’t press, and by the time they returned home, the absence of Sukuna in Itadori’s house that day had become a topic no one talked about. Days turned into weeks, weeks into years, and Sukuna’s name was never brought up again.

Looking back, Choso realized it was as if Sukuna had never existed in the first place. A boy erased from his own home, his story swallowed whole by the silence of adults who chose not to tell the truth.

Even now, driving toward Sendai, the memory made his stomach twist.

—--------------

By the time Choso finally pulled into the familiar street, the sky had already sunk into a gray heaviness. The hour hovered around four, but the dim clouds made it feel much later, as if twilight had arrived too soon. Rain spatters dotted the windshield, the steady rhythm of the wipers fighting to keep pace. His chest tightened the moment he saw it: Yuuji’s car parked right there in the driveway, glistening under the drizzle. Relief hit him sharp, almost knocking the air from his lungs. He hadn’t been wrong. Yuuji was here.

He pulled over, cut the engine, and stepped out. Cold air rushed him immediately, damp with the smell of wet earth and rain-soaked leaves. He tugged his jacket tighter around his shoulders, grabbed the foods he bought on the way for Yuuji and broke into a jog across the gravel. His shoes splashed into shallow puddles, spraying mud onto his pants. By the time he reached the front porch, his clothes were damp, his hair dripping.

At the door, Choso stopped long enough to shake the water from his sleeves, brushing his palms over the fabric to smooth it down, as if presenting himself properly mattered. He lifted his eyes to the house. The windows looked dark, their glass reflecting nothing but the storm. No movement inside. The silence pressed heavier than the rain.

He rang the bell once. Waited. Nothing. The sound of water dripping from the eaves filled the pause. He rang again, then leaned closer, pressing his knuckles to the wood. “Yuuji? It’s me.”

No answer. His voice felt small against the cavernous stillness.

Choso tried calling louder, his throat tightening with unease. Still nothing. His knuckles rapped against the doorframe again and again, but the only reply was the creak of branches swaying in the wind.

Finally, driven by a knot of worry that burned hotter with every second, Choso curled his hand around the doorknob. It turned easily under his palm. The door gave way with a low groan.

He froze for a breath, staring into the shadows that waited inside. Then, with his heart hammering, he pushed it open wider and stepped in.

The air inside smelled faintly of dust and wood, tinged with the cool dampness of a house too long untouched. The entryway was dark, save for the dull gray light filtering in from the storm. Every footstep echoed louder than it should, like the house itself had been holding its breath.

“Yuuji,” Choso called again, softer this time, as though afraid to disturb the silence. But no voice answered him back.

Choso stepped further inside, shutting the door softly behind him. The house greeted him with nothing but the hum of rain against the roof, the silence almost oppressive. His shoes left faint, wet prints across the wooden floor as he moved cautiously through the hallway.

The living room was the first thing he passed. It was dim, the curtains half-drawn, the furniture neatly arranged but coated with that peculiar stillness of a space rarely lived in. The faint smell of dust clung to the air, heavy and old. Nothing out of place, but also nothing alive.

He called Yuuji’s name again. His voice stretched into the emptiness and dissolved. Still no reply.

Turning toward the kitchen, Choso found evidence that someone had been here recently—a single plate and cup left on the counter, the faintest trace of food. Relief flickered through him, enough to push him forward.

That’s when Choso noticed a door down the hallway, slightly ajar. A sliver of shadow stretched across the floorboards, darker than the storm-light spilling in from the windows. He knew this door. If his memory was right, that was the bedroom Yuuji’s parents used to share.

His chest tightened. Slowly, he walked toward it, each step heavier than the last. The closer he got, the clearer the picture became: the faint scrape of drawers pulled out, the uneven shape of objects scattered across the floor. The room wasn’t neat. It was in disarray, as though turned inside out.

Choso pushed the door open wider.

Yuuji was on the floor, lying amid the chaos. Papers spilled from drawers, albums and boxes overturned, the air thick with the musty smell of upheaval. Near the center of the room, the wooden floorboards had been pulled open, revealing a gaping cavity where a safe now sat exposed—its door unlocked, its insides emptied.

And Yuuji lay stretched out beside it, his body limp with exhaustion, his face pale and damp with sweat. For a second Choso thought he might be unconscious. But his eyes were wide open. He wasn’t asleep, nor did he look startled by Choso’s sudden arrival. He just lay there flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if searching for something only he could see. His face was blank, emptied of expression, the kind of look that spoke louder than any words.

Choso stood in the doorway for a moment, the weight of recognition settling in. Then he stepped inside, his footsteps careful against the scattered debris.

When he reached Yuuji’s side, he crouched down a little, studying him with a furrow between his brows. 

“...So here you are,” he said quietly, voice even, almost casual. “What are you doing?”

Yuuji didn’t turn his head. His gaze stayed locked on the ceiling, lips pressed together, chest rising and falling with shallow, tired breaths.

For a long while, Yuuji didn’t move, just kept staring at the ceiling like he could burn a hole through it. Then, finally, his voice came—hoarse, flat, but sharp enough to catch Choso off guard.

“Do you think I should start digging up their graves too?”

Choso blinked. “…What?” He studied Yuuji’s profile, trying to gauge if he was joking, but there was nothing playful in his expression. Just exhaustion.

With a soft sigh, Choso lowered himself to the floor beside him. Papers rustled under his weight, the scattered documents brushing against his hands. He reached for a few sheets, scanning through them as if the mess might explain itself. “Why? What’s this all about?”

It took Yuuji a while to respond. His lips pressed together, chest rising and falling with steady, controlled breaths. At last, his voice came low:

“I’m looking for something… anything about the Ryoumen family. And what they had to do with Sukuna’s disappearance.”

Choso’s eyes flicked toward him, surprised. “The Ryoumen?” He frowned. “Why?”

Yuuji didn’t answer. The silence stretched, filled only by the shuffle of paper as Choso kept leafing through the pile. Titles of property deeds, banking slips, legal documents—nothing that screamed the answers Yuuji was hunting for.

“Damn,” Choso muttered under his breath after a moment, lips quirking despite the tension. “You’re rich, Yuuji. Like, stupid rich.”

Yuuji ignored him completely, eyes still shadowed with that far-off focus. He didn’t even flinch at the comment. Choso let it go, flipping through another stack. 

Meanwhile, Yuuji’s thoughts circled back to the same dead ends—Ijichi had already told him everything he knew, his grandfather’s safe held nothing but wealth papers, and now his parents’ safe was just more of the same. Nothing about Sukuna. Nothing about his mother’s family. Nothing that mattered. Nothing to help him get his brother back.

And now Choso is here. He probably will ask Yuuji to be back to Tokyo tomorrow at the very least. It has been five days since he left Tokyo, since he contacted anyone, since he abandoned his school and came here to nothing. And Yuuji knows damn well that as much as Choso loves and cares for him, education is still a number one for Choso. He probably also called his mother to nag Yuuji about it, how education is important and stuff. Well, Yuuji knew that, but Sukuna is also important to him. More than anything else in this world.

And then, all at once, it hit him.

Yuuji pushed himself up from the floor with sudden urgency, sitting upright beside Choso. His eyes were wide now, alive in a way they hadn’t been all day.

“…Wait.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “Choso—your mom and my mom are cousin, right? That means your mother knows about Ryoumen right?”

Choso blinked at him, caught off guard by the shift.

Yuuji leaned forward, almost desperate now. “Tell me what you know. About your mom. About her family. Anything. Please.”

Choso didn’t answer right away. His fingers paused over a half-crumpled document, eyes shifting from the paper to Yuuji’s face. He could see it—the raw urgency in Yuuji’s expression, the way his knuckles were white where he clenched his hands against his knees.

“I don’t know what you expect Yuuji, I'm the same with you, I don’t know much,” Choso said finally, voice low, almost reluctant. “You know how they hate my family right? And my mom rarely talks about that side of the family either.”

“That’s fine. Really. ” Yuuji’s response came fast, and continued, “Whatever you know—tell me. I don’t care how small it is. Anything.” His eyes burned, wide and pleading. 

Choso let out a slow breath, his shoulders stiff with unease. He wanted to look away, but Yuuji’s stare held him there, unrelenting. Yuuji was desperate, clinging to whatever thread might still exist.

“...Alright,” Choso said at last, softer now. “But I’m telling you, it’s not much. Just bits and pieces I remember from when I was a kid.”

And for the first time since he walked into the room, Choso looked almost uneasy—not because of the memory itself, but because he knew it mattered far more to Yuuji than it ever had to him.

---—------------

The rain hadn’t stopped. It tapped steadily against the windows, a dull percussion that filled the silence of the room. The light had dimmed to a deep gray, shadows creeping into the corners, and the air smelled faintly of dust from the upheaval of drawers and papers.

Yuuji and Choso lay side by side on the floor, both staring up at the ceiling. Between them, the scattered mess of old files and the gaping floorboard where the safe had been unearthed. It wasn’t comfortable, but neither of them seemed to care.

For a long while, there was only the sound of the rain. Then Choso exhaled, long and slow, and spoke.

“You know…” His voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used in a while. “My mom… she didn’t have much of a place in the Ryoumen family because she struggled to have kids.” He swallowed hard, voice dipping quieter. “By the time she walked away, she was already being pushed aside.” Yuuji turned his head slightly, watching Choso’s profile in the dim light, but didn’t interrupt.

“She almost never talked about the family. Barely said their name.” Choso’s brows furrowed faintly, as though recalling details that had long been buried. “What I do know is, she was abandoned because she went through miscarriages over and over again. By the time she had me she had already moved out of that place. Like you know, I was the only one who survived.” He paused, jaw tightening. The rain hit harder for a moment, as though to emphasize the weight of his words.

“That’s why she didn’t get along with the rest of them.” Choso glanced briefly at Yuuji, his expression unreadable. “The only one she seemed close to was your mom.” He let the words fade into the room, into the sound of rain, and fell quiet again.

Choso shifted, his tone changing just slightly when he spoke again. “Your mom was different. My mom once said that your mom chose to leave before the pressure about the heirs was on her. I remember my mom saying that your mom and her both hated how obsessed the Ryoumen were with their bloodline.” He let out a low breath, the kind that seemed to carry years of weight in it. The two of them lay there in silence, side by side, the storm outside filling the gaps their words left behind.

Choso never once tried to dig deeper into his mother’s side of the family. Not when he was younger, not even when he was old enough to understand the weight behind her silence. Because from the little she’d told him, it was enough. The Ryoumen clan was like a disease — dangerous, consuming, something best kept away. His mother spoke of them rarely, but when she did, there was always a shadow in her eyes. Resentment. Fear. Bitterness. She had been cast aside after years of miscarriages, treated as though her worth began and ended with the children she could not carry. If not for Choso’s birth, she would not have survived, forgotten even faster than Sukuna had been.

So why would he care about a family that had thrown his mother away?

To Choso, the Ryoumen were nothing more than a curse. A stain. The further he stayed from them, the better. And that was the reason he never asked questions, never chased after their history — because in his mind, nothing good could come from reopening wounds his mother had fought so hard to escape.

But watching Yuuji now, hunched over papers and safes that offered him nothing but dust, Choso couldn’t bring himself to judge him. If it had been him—if the roles were reversed, and his little brother had been taken, erased, silenced by the same people who once threw his mother away—Choso knew he wouldn’t have stopped at overturned drawers or safes. He would’ve gone straight to the Ryoumen estate itself. He would’ve torn down their doors, ripped through their secrets, demanded answers until his throat bled.

Choso’s voice dropped lower, like he was letting Yuuji in on something he wasn’t sure he should say.

“That’s why my mom never went back and just moved farther away from them. After all the miscarriages, after she stopped being acknowledged. She told me it was safer that way. That if she kept me too close to the family, I might end up becoming their target. Another piece for their obsession with heirs.” He gave a humorless little laugh, bitter at the edges. “I guess in her own way, she was protecting me.” He paused, letting the storm fill in the quiet before going on.

Choso let out a slow breath, still staring at the ceiling. His voice came steady, but there was weight in it. “Yuuji, The Ryoumen family, they’re dangerous. Trust me.”

Yuuji’s gaze flicked sideways, but he stayed quiet, listening.

Choso continued, shifting so he could lean an arm behind his head. “You know about my job, right? At the startup? We’re small, but we work with investors, with money, funding stuff. And the Ryoumen name comes up more than you’d think.”

He paused, remembering the hushed conversations in meeting rooms, the warnings exchanged like half-whispered secrets.

“They don’t just invest, Yuuji. They strangle. People take their money thinking it’ll give them a chance—but in the end, it’s debt with no escape. Terms nobody can meet. Contracts that bind you until there’s nothing left to own but your name. And no one dares push back, because they’re too powerful. Even the government won’t step in. Not with them. That family’s influence runs everywhere, both sides of the law.”

His brow furrowed, his voice tightening. Choso finally turned his head toward Yuuji, watching him in the dim light of the ruined room. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes searched Yuuji’s face like he was trying to see the truth before it was spoken, “...Tell me,” he said at last. “Do you think this has anything to do with Sukuna’s disappearance?”

Yuuji’s throat worked before he finally spoke, his voice hoarse, brittle around the edges. “Yeah,” he muttered, almost choking on it. “It has to be. Everything—Sukuna leaving, the truth Ijichi told me, how Sukuna came out of nowhere and how he acts around me after he comes back—it all connects back to them.”

His fists clenched against the floor, knuckles pale. He swallowed hard, words spilling like he’d been holding them back for years. “I hate myself for not realizing it sooner. For needing someone else—Ijichi, Satoru—to piece it together before I did. All this time I was so blind.”

He turned his face away, blinking fast, but the sting in his eyes gave him away. “And our parents and my grandfather. They hid it. They all hid it from me. Like I couldn’t handle it. Like I didn’t deserve to know. And now they're gone, Sukuna hates me, and none of them ever said a word.”

Yuuji dragged a shaky hand through his damp hair, chest rising and falling unsteadily. Choso stayed quiet, just letting him speak.

“Now it makes sense. What Satoru said about Sukuna. What Ijichi and you just told me, about their obsession with heirs, about how deep their claws go, it all lines up. It’s all connected.”

His voice cracked as he laughed bitterly. “And here I am, I tore apart this whole house, every drawer, every damn safe, hoping to find something—anything. But there’s nothing. Just dead ends.”

The room sank into silence again, only the rain answering, heavy and endless against the roof.

Yuuji stayed quiet for a while, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, the rain filling the silence between them. His breathing was slow but uneven, like his mind was turning over everything Choso had just said.

Choso shifted closer, voice low and calm. “You know I’ve got your back, Yuuji. Whatever you need—I'll help. We’ll find answers.”

He paused, measuring the weight of the promise, then added quietly, practical as always, “If you want, I can call my mom. She might remember things I don’t. Or we can go through more records, ask Ijichi to help, whatever. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Yuuji let out a shaky breath, his voice soft but steady. “Thanks, Choso… if it’s not too much trouble for you or your mom, I’d really like to talk to her. Anything—no matter how small—if she remembers something, I’d appreciate it.”

Choso nodded, but after a moment, he asked carefully, “And after you get the answers you’re looking for… what then?”

Yuuji didn’t hesitate. His words came out fast, almost like they’d been waiting to spill. “First, I want to apologize to Sukuna. For not being there. For being stupid brother who didn’t see what was happening to him.” 

His hands covered his face for a moment, then dropped them, eyes raw and wide. “I just wanted the truth, you know. I want to know what really happened to my family. To be with my brother again. To tell him I’m sorry. To be with him like we used to be, before this all happened.”

Yuuji let out a shaky breath, “And if—if he really did leave because he was forced, because this family forced him into it…” He swallowed hard, his voice tightening. “Then I’ll help him. I don’t care what it takes. If he wants to break free, I’ll make sure he does. I’ll stand with him this time. I won’t just… sit back and watch again.” 

His throat tightened, “Honestly, what I really want is for things to go back to how they used to be. But I don’t know if that’s even possible anymore.”

Choso studied him for a beat, then said quietly, “Wouldn’t it be better to just… talk to him directly?”

Yuuji’s laugh was bitter, humorless. “Yeah, it should be that simple. But it’s not. Sukuna… he won’t listen. He won’t even give me the chance. I think he hates me, Choso. As he should.” He lowered his gaze, eyes burning. “I didn’t do anything for him back then. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even have the right to face him.”

—------------------

The rain had eased into a light drizzle, leaving the world outside hushed and damp. The windows were fogged at the edges, and the smell of wet earth drifted faintly through the cracks. Inside, every light on the first floor glowed warm and steady—Choso had flicked them all on, refusing to let the house sit in shadows.

At the dining table, Yuuji finally gave in after Choso all but threatened him. “If you don’t eat, I’m not calling my mom,” Choso had said flatly, sliding the containers toward him.

So Yuuji ate. The food Choso had brought was simple but comforting—warm white rice, karaage chicken that still carried a faint crunch, simmered vegetables, and miso soup that steamed against the cool air. There was even a small tray of pickled radish on the side, bright yellow against the wooden table. Yuuji shoveled it down quickly, almost mechanically, like he was only eating to clear the hurdle keeping him from what mattered.

Now, with plates pushed aside, he sat beside Choso, his leg bouncing under the table. The phone lay between them, set to the speaker. Yuuji kept staring at it as if willing it to connect faster. The dial tone buzzed once, twice, three times—then finally, the line clicked open.

“Hello, Choso, dear,” came a woman’s warm, familiar voice. “What a surprise, you don’t usually call at this hour.”

Choso’s expression softened. “Come on, Mom, I call every day, no matter what hours. Don’t make it sound like I’ve abandoned you.”

A light laugh bubbled through the receiver—clear, gentle, and so full of ease that Yuuji’s chest tightened. He had always liked Choso’s mother. She radiated warmth in a way that felt effortless, filling every word with kindness.

“Mom, I’m with Yuuji. In Sendai, and there’s something he wants to talk to you about.” Choso said.

“Oh, really? Are you two on a little trip?” Her voice brightened instantly. “Yuuji, sweetheart, how are you? Give the phone to him for a moment, Choso.”

Yuuji leaned forward, speaking quickly, almost nervously. “Hello, Auntie. I can hear you. I’m doing well, thank you. How are you?”

“Oh Yuuji, I'm well, ” she said warmly. “I’m so glad to hear you’re doing well. You should visit me next time, lovei. I miss you.”

A faint smile tugged at Yuuji’s lips despite the weight in his chest. “I will, Auntie. I’ll come visit for sure. But… actually—” He hesitated, looked back at Choos, his fingers tightening against his knees. “Actually, Auntie, Choso called you tonight because… I wanted to ask you something.”

The warmth in her voice didn’t fade, but Yuuji could feel a subtle shift, as if she, too, recognized the tremor in his tone. “Oh? What is it, dear? Go on, ask me.”

The air around the table seemed to grow heavier, the earlier comfort of the meal giving way to an uneasy silence. Even the faint sound of rain outside felt sharper now, every drop against the windowpane marking the tension building in Yuuji’s chest.

Yuuji swallowed hard, his voice low but steady as he leaned a little closer to the phone.

“Auntie, I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable,” he began. “I know a little from Choso before, about Mom’s and your family. Honestly, I don’t know anything beyond that. My mom never told me anything. I was hoping… if it’s not too much to ask, if you’d be willing to tell me something about them. About the family you both came from. If you don’t feel comfortable, I understand. But… it would mean a lot to me. Anything you can tell me would help. Please…”

The line went quiet for a few long seconds. Yuuji held his breath, his hands twisting in his lap as though he’d asked for something forbidden. Then, a faint sound—the soft exhale of someone gathering themselves. “Oh, I didn’t expect this,” she said at last, her voice slower, more measured now. “Yuuji… talking about Ryoumen family… It isn't easy for me. It’s a heavy subject, and one I’ve carried quietly for a long time. But what your mother chose to do, to not tell you anything about that family, I understand completely. And don’t worry, dear—I want to help you, as much as I can. For your sake.” Her tone warmed slightly, but there was still weight behind it, something unresolved. “So, tell me, Yuuji. What is it you want to know?”

Yuuji’s fingers twisted at the hem of his hoodie, the movement small and nervous. Across from him, Choso sat up a little straighter—his posture tightening, attentive in that quiet way he always did when someone needed him to be steady. Outside, the rain started again, soft at first, then a thin curtain of droplets on the window that made the room feel smaller and wetter.

Yuuji swallowed, his throat tight. He looked down at his lap, fingers fidgeting restlessly against the fabric of his shorts. For a moment, he almost lost his nerve—then the words began to spill out.

He told her everything.

About what Ijichi had confessed to him, the fragments of truth that only left more questions behind. About what Choso had revealed, the bitterness his mother carried, the way the Ryoumen name seemed to rot everything it touched. About Sukuna’s reappearance, colder and sharper, carried an aura that made Yuuji’s chest ache. The bitterness in his brother’s eyes, the weight in his words, all of it cutting Yuuji open with guilt. 

Yuuji took a breath, voice barely above the whisper of the rain. “So, Aunty, do you… know anything? Did Mom ever tell you anything?”

The words hummed softly in the silence that followed, broken only by the faint hiss of rain against the windows. On the line, the woman’s breath came out slow and full, as if she was gathering memories that weighed more than words.

When she spoke, her voice was tender and full of regret. “Oh, Kami-sama... I didn’t know it was this bad, Yuuji… I am so sorry for what happened.”

There's a pause, like she’s trying to hold her tears, “Yuuji, love... Your mother was always private—she kept so much inside. From what I knew, the Ryoumen were demanding. Really, really demanding. They wanted heirs. They expected—” her voice trembled slightly on the last word, “—a certain thing from me and your mother. She tried to protect you both, but she rarely spoke of it. The last time we visited, she said that Sukuna was having a sleepover at his friend. And I didn't know that the Ryoumen family had anything to do with that.”

Yuuji’s throat tightened; the sound he made was half-sob, half-broken plea. “Is there anything else? Anything at all, Auntie? I— I want Sukuna back.” His words spilled out raw, the edges frayed by fear and a grief that sounded like it might crush him.

There was a pause, the silence let the rain take over for a moment. Then her voice returned, low and urgent. “There’s something you need to know, Yuuji. I don't know if this will help or not but you have an uncle, Yuuji. Your uncle probably knows more than me and I’m sure he will help you. But I don’t know where he is right now. He left The Ryoumen years before your mom and I left. And no one really knows where he went, even your mother. The last time we communicated with each other was years ago after your mom gave birth to you and your brother. There is a flower in front of my door and a letter from your uncle in it, and it was for your mother. I didn’t know what's inside the letter. But I assumed, even after all these years he left, he still knows a lot more than anything. He’s always the clever one in the Ryoumen family.”

After hearing that, Yuuji tried to not make a sound even though he wanted to scream now, laugh and scream like a madman, because what do you mean he has an uncle?

Choso's mom then continued, “Yuuji, dear, listen to me. The Ryoumen are dangerous. Your Mom and I… it nearly cost us our lives to break free. Your uncle was the only one who gets away untraceable until now. So, please, whatever you do, don’t dive into this recklessly. If you must look for answers, be careful. If you want to help your brother, don’t do it alone.”

“And if what Ijichi told you is true,” she said, “that Sukuna was sent to the Ryoumen seven years ago and, all that time, lived under them as their Heir—completely untraceable—yet suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s back now… and the way he acts around you…” She paused, as if gathering the courage for what came next. “Yuuji, I think Sukuna might have run away from them.”

Another pause, then she continued, “Because I know that The Ryoumen won’t let you have a normal life, especially if you’re their successor. From what you described about Sukuna, he sounded like someone who is trying to escape the clan’s grip. Trust me—your mother and I know what that looks like. We have been in that position before.”

Hearing it said aloud made something in Yuuji’s chest clamp down. He felt the air thin. The room contracted until it was just him, the phone, and the steady patter of rain. He rasped, almost choking on the question.

“So what do I do, Auntie?” His voice broke. “I don’t know anything about the Ryoumen except pieces. I just… I want Sukuna back. How do I help him?” Yuuji let out a shaky breath that signaled both relief at having the warning and a new, colder fear because of it.

Her response was immediate, practical and careful at once. “First—try to speak to Sukuna directly,” she advised. “Ask him. You need to know how things are going on for him, how he feels and what he wants. If he asks for help running, tell him we’ll hide him, whatever it takes. If you want to confront the clan, please—be careful. Whatever you decide, don’t do it alone. Don’t go charging in blind. And if you intend to try and force the Ryōmen off him—if your plan is to fight them and free him as their heir—then you must understand one thing: you need backup far stronger than The Ryoumen.”

There was a pause, then she added, softer, “You know I'm not a Ryoumen but a Kamo right now, so I don't know much about them. But don’t you worry, we will help where we can. Choso’s family will help. I will talk to Choso’s father later, asking about your uncle and other stuff to help you. But right now, I don’t know much about them. And the last thing I heard about Ryoumen business was months ago, about your grandmother leaving the country and nothing more. So, you better talk to Ijichi about what you can do as an heir of Itadori. Ask him about your uncle. We all know the Itadoris have power too, Yuuji. So, go use your connection to know more about them. Use your power to get in touch with your uncle, he will help you. The Ryoumen are deeply rooted, Yuuji. To oppose them outright—if that’s what you mean to help free Sukuna—you’ll need allies who can match their reach. Of course Kamo will help but this is still dangerous work, Yuuji. It’s not just legal battles; there are people who will use violence. They do kill people, Yuuji. Your mom and I lost so many people to escape, and I don't want that to happen to you too. Do you understand me, Yuuji?"

Yuuji let the warning land. He had wanted answers and a path forward; now he had both a terrifying clarity and an offer of support. The rain softened to a whisper outside. Inside the house, among scattered papers and the empty cavity of a safe, Yuuji felt equal parts terrified and oddly steadied — because now he knew two things for sure: Sukuna had been caught in something much larger than either of them, and he would not have to face it entirely by himself.

“Auntie,” Yuuji whispered, voice cracking, “Thank you. I— I’ll be careful. I promise.” He wasn’t sure if he could keep that promise, but he said it because the sound of her concern felt like the first honest thing he’d had all night.

“Good,” she said softly. “And Yuuji, please promise me you will call me and give me an update on what you and Sukuna want to do—if you need anything, call me. Tell Choso to bring you anytime. We’ll help the best we can, but please—please be careful. For both our sakes.”

—-----------------

The call ended the same way it had carried on—soft but weighted, Choso’s mother offering her final words with a mixture of warmth and warning. Then, almost in the same breath, she slipped back into her usual gentle tone, reminding them to come visit her when they had the time, that her door was always open.

When the line went dead, the kitchen grew quiet again. The only sound was the faint hiss of rain sliding against the windows, steady and constant, like the house itself was listening. Choso set his phone down on the table, the screen going dark, and leaned back in his chair. For a moment neither of them spoke.

Yuuji sat slouched over the edge of the table, his hands pressed together, thumbs dragging restlessly against each other. His eyes were fixed on nothing, still clouded with the weight of everything he’d just heard. The echo of his aunt’s words swirled together in his head until it was hard to breathe.

Across from him, Choso broke the silence. His voice was steady, low, but it carried a note of insistence. 

“So?” he said, looking at Yuuji’s face. “You heard her. Talk to Sukuna.”

The words hung in the air, simple and direct, cutting through the rain and Yuuji’s spiraling thoughts like a knife.

—----------------

The room was heavy with silence, broken only by Choso’s steady breathing. Yuuji shifted restlessly on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come. His mind kept circling the same thoughts, over and over again.

He thought about Sukuna — the fights they’d had, the silence that had grown between them, the way Sukuna had looked at him like he was a stranger. Just the idea of facing him again made Yuuji’s chest tighten. How do I even start talking to him? Will he listen? Or will he just ignore me and turn away like usual?

He imagined Sukuna’s face if they met again — that sharp glare, the kind of look that said he didn’t want Yuuji anywhere near him. Shame settled heavier in his chest the more he thought about it. Sukuna had suffered alone, and Yuuji hadn’t done anything. Even their parents didn’t try hard enough for Sukuna. He was mad at himself and his parents, his grandparents, for not doing anything back then. How could they abandon their son like that?

His Mother was always brushing aside questions with a tired smile. “You don’t need to worry about that, Yuuji,” she would say, like she was protecting him from something too sharp to touch.

Now, lying awake in Sukuna’s old room, Yuuji wished he had pressed harder. The thought made his chest ache. Sukuna’s absence, his anger, the gaping hole between them — it wasn’t just about the two of them. It stretched back to their parents, to what they had chosen not to say.

Yuuji turned on his side, pulling Sukuna’s blanket tighter around him, his Mother's faint voice echoing in his head. Gradually, it became harder to tell whether he was remembering or dreaming.

—----------------

When Yuuji opened his eyes, the darkness of Sukuna’s room was gone.

Warm sunlight spilled over his skin, hummed against summer air. His hands were sunk in the cool grit of soil, fingers digging clumps of dirt and loose sand like he was searching for treasure. There was a thrill in his chest, a bubbling excitement he hadn’t felt in years.

He glanced up, and there she was. His mother, kneeling beside him, a gentle smile tugging her lips as she leaned closer to help scoop earth away with her palms. Her laughter was soft, wrapped around him like a blanket.

The backyard stretched wide under the sky, cicadas buzzing in the heat of summer. Yuuji remembered now — he had been in first grade, summer break. Sukuna hadn’t come outside with him that day; he’d been sick with a fever, stuck in his room while Yuuji sat on the porch sulking. Until Mom coaxed him out here, distracting him with the promise of “adventure.”

And it worked. With her by his side, Yuuji forgot all about his sadness. Together they dug beneath the tall cherry blossom tree that stood proudly at the edge of the yard — the same one that had been cut down years later when Yuuji graduated middle school.

“Hmm, I think that’s deep enough, Yuuji,” his mother said, her voice light and warm as she dusted dirt from her hands. She leaned closer, her hair brushing his cheek when she smiled down at him. “We can stop here.”

Her eyes caught the sunlight, gentle and full of love, and for a moment Yuuji felt like his whole world existed only in that smile.

Yuuji pouted, his small hands still clawing through the dirt, “But what if there’s more, Mom? What if it’s hiding deeper?”

She laughed again — that quiet, lilting sound that seemed to soothe the whole world. She reached over, brushing soil from his knuckles, her touch cool and tender, “Sometimes, Yuuji,” she said softly, “the best treasures aren’t buried deeper. They’re right here, waiting for you to notice.”

She tapped her finger gently over his heart. Yuuji froze, staring up at her, the words carving into his memory even though he didn’t yet understand them.

The cicadas sang louder. A breeze stirred the branches above, scattering loose petals from the sakura tree like pale pink snow. His mother looked up at the fluttering shower, eyes distant for just a moment — wistful, almost sad — before her smile returned, “Besides,” she added, brushing his hair from his forehead, “if you keep digging too much, you might lose sight of what’s already in front of you.”

The warmth of her palm lingered, grounding him in a way that felt achingly fragile. Yuuji wanted to say something — to ask what she meant, to tell her he didn’t want to stop, that he wanted her here always — but the words stuck in his throat.

Instead, he only nodded, and kept holding onto her smile as if he could store it away forever.

“Look, here…”

His mother’s voice drew his gaze back down. Her fingers brushed aside a clump of dirt, and there — just barely peeking out — was the round lip of a glass bottle. Only part of it was visible, cloudy from years underground.

His chest lit up with excitement. He dropped to his knees and dug faster, little hands clawing the soil around it, wanting to see it fully—But her hand caught his wrist. Firm, though still gentle, “Yuuji.”

Hearing that, Yuuji stops, blinking up at her. She leaned closer, her expression calm but her eyes serious, “This,” she said quietly, brushing the dirt from the glass with her thumb. “This is my treasure. And now, it will be yours.”

Yuuji’s heart thudded in his small chest. His mouth split into a grin, his whole body buzzing. “Really? It’s mine? Can I see—”. Her grip tightened. “No.” He blinked again, confused.

“Not yet,” she added, her voice softer but unyielding. “Promise me, Yuuji. Don’t take this out until you’re grown. Until you’re truly an adult.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, holding him there. “And when you do… promise me you’ll never tell anyone what’s inside.”

Yuuji frowned, his brows knitting together. “Not even Sukuna? This is just for me?”

For a moment, her face softened again. She shook her head slowly, a tender smile returning to her lips. “No. You’ll decide that. It will be yours, Yuuji. If you want Sukuna to know what’s inside, that’s okay too. I believe in you, Yuuji. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Relief bloomed in his little chest, and he nodded quickly, smiling wide again. Treasure. His treasure. Something only his mom trusted him with.

But before the happiness could settle, she tugged his hand again. This time her smile was gone. Her face was serious, her eyes heavy, “Promise me, Yuuji. You’ll take this only when you’re grown… and when I’m no longer here.”

The words made his stomach twist, a nervous lump rising in his throat. He didn’t understand why she’d say something like that — why her voice sounded so strange. But he nodded anyway, mumbling a quiet, “Okay.”

And then, he turned his head toward the house. Up on the second floor, framed by the window, Sukuna was watching. His twin’s face was pale, sad, pressed against the glass as if the fever pinned him there. Yuuji’s small hand lifted, waving eagerly, hoping to draw him down to play.

Sukuna didn’t wave back. But he smiled — that rare, quiet smile that no one else ever saw.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, Yuuji felt his chest ache.

-—----------------

The morning broke soft and pale, washed clean by the rain from the night before. Dew clung to the grass outside the window, catching in the first strands of sunlight. The air smelled fresh, damp earth and quiet, the kind of stillness only early morning in Sendai could carry.

Choso stirred awake, his limbs heavy, his body reminding him of the long drive yesterday. He reached for his phone beside his pillow — the screen blinked 06:48. He stretched, groaning softly, the sleep still lingering in his muscles. Tired, yes, but it had been a deep, dreamless rest, the kind he hadn’t had in weeks.

Today, though, there was no room for more sleep. His responsibilities in Tokyo were waiting; his job couldn’t stay ignored forever. He turned, ready to nudge Yuuji awake so they could start moving but the space beside him was empty. The bed where Yuuji had slept was already cold, the blanket folded back in a careless heap.

Choso rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet, the weight of unease pulling him toward the door. The silence in the house pressed around him. He padded downstairs, his socks brushing against the wooden steps, the faint creak of the floorboards sounding louder than usual.

The first thing he saw was the mess—the muddy footprints trailing in from the open side door that led to the backyard, smears of damp soil across the kitchen floor. The dim glow of morning light slipping through the glass door. The rain-washed garden stretched wide beyond it, still silvered with dew, the earth dark and damp. Then his eyes landed on Yuuji.

He was sitting at the dinning table, shoulders hunched, head bowed low, his fingers tangled in his hair. Dirt stained his hands, streaked across his arms and pants, even smudged along his jaw like he’d been clawing at the earth with everything he had. On the table in front of him sat a glass bottle, its surface dulled by soil, and a folded piece of paper pressed flat beside it.

The morning light caught on the trembling in Yuuji’s frame. His shoulders shook with every uneven breath, the sound muffled as he tried to choke it down. Choso could see his hands clenching tighter in his hair, leaving darker streaks where dirt rubbed into the strands.

For a moment, Choso didn’t move. He just stood there, the weight of the scene pressing against his chest—Yuuji, breaking apart quietly at the kitchen table.

Choso didn’t even think. The scrape of the chair legs against the floor sounded too loud in the heavy quiet as he pulled it closer and dropped into the seat beside Yuuji. From this close he could see everything—the raw redness rimmed around Yuuji’s eyes, the streaks of mud across his cheeks where dirt had mixed with tears, the way his chest rose and fell in stuttering gasps.

His gaze flicked briefly to the table. That bottle. That folded paper. He didn’t know what they were, but they felt heavy, like secrets that didn’t belong to him. Still, his focus came back to Yuuji.

“Hey…” Choso’s voice was low, careful, as though speaking too loud might shatter the fragile thread holding Yuuji together. “What happened?”

Yuuji lifted his head, and it broke Choso’s heart. His face was a mess of tears and grime, eyes wide with panic and despair. His voice cracked apart when he spoke, desperate and trembling.

“What do I do, Choso? What should I do?”

The words spilled out with another sob, and before Choso could even process, his body moved on its own. He wrapped an arm around Yuuji and pulled him close, feeling how violently his shoulders shook against him. Yuuji pressed his face into Choso’s shoulder, sobbing harder, clutching at his shirt like he was drowning.

Choso held him tighter, his free hand moving in slow, steady circles across Yuuji’s back. He didn’t know what to say, not really. He didn’t understand any of it yet. But he could give his presence.

“It’s okay, Yuuji,” Choso murmured against his hair, firm but gentle. “Whatever it is… I’ll help you. You’re not alone in this. Okay?”

Yuuji only cried harder at that, broken words muffled into Choso’s shoulder, half-swallowed sobs that Choso couldn’t make sense of. He didn’t push him to explain. He just held him, grounding him, repeating softly, “Everything will be alright. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

The paper on the table stayed untouched, a silent witness to Yuuji’s unraveling. Choso’s eyes kept catching on it, but he didn’t ask—not yet. First, he let Yuuji cry until there was nothing left but exhaustion.

—----------------

Early spring had settled over campus, the kind where the air carried a sharp chill in the mornings but softened by noon. The trees lining the main quad were beginning to bloom—slivers of pink and white clinging to bare branches, petals dusting the walkways. Students passed by in clusters, voices loud, footsteps quick, laughter carrying in the crisp air.

Sukuna adjusted the strap of his bag against his shoulder as he walked toward the library. His proposal draft was half-finished, and this afternoon’s meeting with the anniversary committee wasn’t going to wait for him to catch up. 

Three days ago, Megumi and Utahime had agreed to his idea, calling it a perfect fit for the university’s vibe. That meant it was on him now to polish it, present the idea in front of the other committee and make sure he didn’t look like an idiot in front of them.

The weight of classes, the projects and night shifts at work pressed heavier than usual. His body was tired, and the lack of proper sleep hadn’t helped. Strangely, Sukuna liked it. He couldn’t deny there was one thing he actually appreciated about this anniversary project—it gave him space from Uraume. This project was eating up every spare hour Uraume had, and they both knew if he skipped out even once, Yuta and Toge would be on his case—worst of all, Mai. With so much on his plate, he barely had time to keep an eye on Sukuna the way he usually did. Which is good, beacuse for once, he wasn’t being shadowed by Uraume every waking minute. The bastard was stubborn to the point of suffocating, insisting on following Sukuna everywhere like some watchdog. Sure, Sukuna was grateful sometimes—Uraume had a way of glaring down Yuuji’s friends or anyone else nosy enough to approach him, a presence that scared most people off before Sukuna even had to lift a finger. But there were times when it was too much, when even breathing felt like it came with eyes on the back of his neck. Here, though—between classes, his art and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders—he could work on his part of the project alone. No watchdog tailing him down every hallway.

Every morning he dragged himself to class, sat through lectures, and recorded it with half his mind still stuck on his late shifts, the projects and the exhaustion weighing down his body. Between classes—or when he had an empty hour to spare—he’d head to the Art Club room. That had become his second base—besides the library of course, the place where most of his time went these days.

There, he worked side by side with Megumi and Utahime, hashing out the anniversary theme in long sessions that stretched until their heads hurt. They sketched layouts, drafted color palettes, scribbled notes about lighting and stage props, then crossed everything out and started again. Sometimes they met with students from other departments—architecture kids, business majors, even a few volunteers from different clubs who wanted in on the project for this year's anniversary. Those meetings were a blur of handshakes, introductions, and ideas flying back and forth, all of it circling back to the theme Sukuna had pitched.

Megumi and Utahime, to their credit, never acted any differently toward him despite being Yuuji’s friends. They stayed professional, focused on the work, treating him like a teammate instead of an outsider. But even then, every so often, Sukuna would catch Megumi staring—his gaze sharp, unreadable, like he was trying to figure Sukuna out but never saying a word. Utahime had her own slips; once or twice she’d faltered mid-sentence, eyes flickering over his face before she muttered a quiet, “Sorry—you just… it’s distracting. You look so much like Yuuji. It feels like I’m talking to him instead of you.”

Sukuna never responded to comments like that. He didn’t need to. He just shut them out, brought the conversation back to whatever needed to get done.

As far as he was concerned, the only thing that mattered here was the project. He wasn’t going to slack off, not when the responsibility was already in his hands. He wants this life, right? In college, doing his art and being normal like other people.

It had been six days since Yuuji was last seen. Nearly a week. And then there was the nuisance of Yuuji’s friends–other than Megumi and Utahime. Almost a full week had passed, and the constant interruptions were driving Sukuna past the point of tolerance. For the first two, maybe three days after Yuuji’s absence, they’d been relentless. 

Haibara in class, talking his ear off with questions and jokes as if Sukuna was obligated to respond. Panda was the second—towering, loud, always too cheerful for his own good. He’d catch Sukuna in the corridor between classes, big grin plastered on his face, trying to chat as if they shared some kind of inside joke. Sukuna didn’t even slow down, didn’t so much as twitch in acknowledgment, but Panda never seemed discouraged.

Yuta was different—polite, measured, careful with his words. He’d approach like he didn’t want to spook him, soft-spoken, almost deferential. But polite or not, it was still intrusion, still another attempt to break into the silence Sukuna had carved out for himself. He ignored Yuta the same way he ignored all of them, but that didn’t stop the boy from trying again the next day, and the next.

And Maki, that girl always catching him in the gym, casually asking where Yuuji was as if Sukuna carried his twin’s schedule in his pocket. Even Nanami—who Sukuna had pegged as the quiet type—had tried to rope him into some question during history class two days ago. And Nobara? She had been the loudest of them all. Shouting his name across the cafeteria like they were close, as if she didn’t notice half the room turning to stare.

But all of it had died off soon enough. Sukuna’s silence, his cutting glares, and Uraume’s sharp, lethal stares had shut them down one by one. The chatter stopped. The attempts to reach out disappeared. By the fourth day, they left him alone.

All except for one.

The one person who refused to take a hint, who seemed to think being ignored was an invitation. The one who trailed after him through corridors, cracking jokes, asking pointless questions, acting as if they’d been friends forever.

Satoru Gojo. Who else?

If Uraume was overbearing, Gojo was relentless. No matter where Sukuna went—classrooms, courtyards, even the damn vending machines—Gojo was there, striking up conversations as if they were already best friends. It didn’t matter how sharp Sukuna’s glare was, or how pointedly he ignored him. Gojo just grinned wider, like Sukuna’s silence was encouragement. And unlike everyone else, Gojo didn’t get scared off. Not even a little.

Even now, on his way to the library, Gojo managed to drift into step beside him, sunglasses sliding down his nose, grinning like he’d been waiting there all day. Sukuna couldn’t figure it out—how the hell Gojo always managed to know his schedule. No matter where he went, the bastard showed up like clockwork. Library, class, corridors—Gojo was already there, lounging around like he’d been waiting all along.

Two nights ago was the worst. Sukuna stayed late at the library, doing homework and projects past closing hours, and Gojo stayed the whole day with him, even trailed him all the way down the street, step for step, until they were nearly at the edge of the road that led toward Shigure. Sukuna had been seconds away from snapping when Gojo finally got a call from someone— muttered a half-assed excuse and left. Sukuna hadn’t cared enough to ask.

Still, the fact remained. Wherever he went, Gojo was there, like some obnoxious ghost with white hair and no concept of boundaries. And it wasn’t even a serious conversation. Gojo filled the air with the most pointless drivel. “The weather’s too weird today, right? Cloudy but hot. I hate it.” Or he would complain about his milkshake, “The café across the street? Their milkshake tastes like soap, I swear.” And most of the time, he would annoy Sukuna with his homeworks,“Hey, do you understand this assignment? No way a freshman like you gets it, right?”. And sometimes, it circled back to the same sharp jab, light and casual but digging anyway: “So, Sukuna—where’s Yuuji hiding these days?”

Sukuna didn’t answer. Not once. Not to any of them. But the constant noise, the constant eyes—six days of it—was starting to fray at the edges of his patience.

The campus library was one of the quieter places left on school grounds—tall shelves lined in neat rows, the smell of paper and ink clinging faintly to the air. At the entrance stood a long, polished counter where the admin clerk sat, glasses perched low on her nose as she scanned IDs or stamped overdue slips. Beyond that, the space stretched wide, split into sections: rows of study desks in the center, clusters of sofas for group work near the middle, and quiet zones tucked in the far corners where voices dared not rise above a whisper.

Sukuna knew exactly where he was headed. He always did. His favorite spot was at the far back, near the tall windows that looked out over the quad. In late afternoons, the sunlight fell there in soft, slanted beams—warm enough to sit in without being blinding. It was quiet, isolated, a perfect place to drown in work without interruptions.

Or at least, it should’ve been.

The moment he walked in, Gojo Satoru followed like a shadow that refused to disappear. His white hair caught the light immediately, standing out like a flare among the muted browns and greys of the library. And of course, he just had to make an entrance.

“Good afternoon!” Gojo’s voice rang out cheerfully as he waved at the librarian. Loud. Way too loud.

The clerk’s head snapped up, a sharp frown cutting through her face as she hissed, “Quiet zone, Gojo!”

Gojo pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, lowering his voice only slightly but with a mischievous grin. “Ah, my apologies, sensei. I just couldn’t help myself—you look radiant today.”

Sukuna clenched his jaw, every nerve in his body screaming to snap. He’d been ignoring Gojo all week, but today it felt unbearable. He wanted to reach over, grab those ridiculous fluffy bangs, and slam his head against the nearest table until he shut up.

Instead, Sukuna exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on his bag strap. Without a word, he cut through the aisles and made his way to his corner seat. He dropped his bag onto the table with a dull thud, pulling out the things he’d need one by one. His laptop was set down first, followed by his worn sketchbook with its corners bent and pages stuffed with loose sheets. On top of that, he placed his small recorder, the one he used to keep track of the lectures from classes.

Everything had its place, everything lined up neatly, a quiet order that helped him focus. He slipped his headset over his ears, the cord brushing against his hoodie as he adjusted the fit. For a moment, the rest of the library seemed to fall away, muffled by the soft seal of the headphones.

Seconds later, the chair opposite him scraped back. And there he was. Gojo, sprawling casually across from him like he owned the damn place, chin propped on his palm and a smile tugging at his lips. Staring at Sukuna like an idiot.

Sukuna ignored him, and didn't have time for Gojo today. Besides the project for the anniversary, there was another weight sitting heavy on his to-do list—the assignment for his Art Business Strategy And Analysis class. It wasn’t Sukuna’s strong suit. Numbers never were.

He still remembered the way his grandmother used to drill him with calculations when he was younger, shoving the company’s reports or sliding her worksheets in front of him at the dining table. Hours spent hunched over numbers that seemed to warp and crawl the longer he stared at them. Even now, the faint smell of her incense and the scrape of pencil lead against paper sometimes came back to him when he opened a math-heavy textbook. That old pressure hadn’t gone anywhere. His chest still tightened, his pulse still picked up whenever rows of numbers piled high on the page.

Now, staring down at his Art Business Strategy And Analysis workbook, Sukuna felt that same old static crawling up his throat. Compound interest, numbers, equations—all laid out in tiny black and yellow text, like taunts daring him to get them wrong. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaled, and forced himself to focus.

—-----------------

The hours slipped faster than Sukuna expected. When he finally looked up, the clock on his laptop glared back at him—04:07 PM. Less than an hour left before the assignment was due. His presentation for the anniversary committee was still sitting unfinished in another tab, mocking him with its half empty slides.

His pen twirled endlessly between his fingers, a nervous tic he couldn’t stop. The headset still hummed in his ears, the monotone voice of a recorded lecture explaining step by step how to structure data analysis for business art reports. It should’ve helped. But it didn’t.

The words, the numbers and tables on his screen and book seemed to blur together, swimming in rows and columns that refused to settle. Letters tangled with formulas, percentages danced at the edges of his vision. It was like the damn equations were laughing at him, teasing him for even trying. With a sharp exhale, Sukuna dragged his hands down his face, then tugged at his hair hard enough to sting. His temples pounded.

His gaze drifted away from the screen, unfocused at first, then sharper as it caught movement across the table. Gojo Satoru, for once, the idiot wasn’t grinning or running his mouth. He was hunched over his own notebook, pen moving quick and smooth across the page, eyes narrowed behind the fall of his bangs. Focused. Completely absorbed in whatever work was in front of him. Sukuna blinked, momentarily thrown. It was almost unsettling, seeing Gojo quiet like that.

Sukuna’s eyes slid sideways, subtle at first, like he was only shifting his gaze to rest his head. But really, he was reading Gojo’s notebook. It wasn’t doodles or nonsense like he half-expected. It was numbers. Actual calculations. Equations laid out across the page in neat rows, formulas threaded together in a way that looked too smooth to be casual. Gojo’s pen didn’t stop—scratching across paper, jotting down notes, running through problems as if the answers came to him instinctively.

Sukuna wasn’t stupid. He’d heard the whispers, the way other students talked about Gojo. Annoying. Loud. Always slacking off. But brilliant—so brilliant professors let him get away with murder because his grades were flawless anyway. Genius wrapped in arrogance. And looking at him now, Sukuna almost believed it.

His eyes followed the motion of Gojo’s pen, the curve of numbers and symbols he couldn’t quite make out. The rhythm of someone who understood. Then the pen stopped.

Sukuna didn’t notice at first. He was too caught up in the thought of maybe—just maybe—asking. A quick, “hey, how do you do this one,” just enough to finish the damn assignment before 5 PM today. The idea lingered, sat on the tip of his tongue. He lifted his head, ready to mutter something, but froze. Gojo wasn’t looking at his notebook anymore. He was looking straight at Sukuna.

Those pale eyes, sharp even in the low library light, caught him without hesitation. Gojo’s grin spread slowly, like a cat that had been waiting beside the mouse hole all day. His pen clattered softly onto the desk as he set it down, both hands coming up to prop his chin, elbows planted against the table. He tilted his head, eyes locking on Sukuna’s like it was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice a little too loud for the library, smug as hell. “Finally. After a whole week, I got your attention, huh?”

The words made Sukuna’s jaw tighten. He should’ve looked away, should’ve buried himself back into his assignment and pretended that nothing happened. But Gojo’s smile—mischievous, devilish, and irritatingly warm—pinned him down.

Sukuna forced his eyes back to his laptop, though the tips of his ears warmed with embarrassment. Gojo leaned in further, lowering his voice but not the teasing lilt in it. “I think you've been staring for at least five minutes, Sukuna. That’s rude.”

Sukuna’s pen snapped against the paper in his grip, the sharp crack louder than he intended. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Uh-huh.” Gojo’s grin only grew wider, shameless. “Sure you weren’t. You just happen to like the way my hand moves when I’m writing, right?”

Sukuna turned to glare, ready to snap, but Gojo only laughed—soft, breathy, almost sweet. And as always, Gojo’s laugh drew the death glares of half the library and a sharp sssttt from the front desk. And—as always—he didn’t care. His grin lingered a little longer before fading into something quieter, though his eyes never left Sukuna. “Okay,” he said, almost gentle now, head still resting lazily on his hand. “What is it?”

Sukuna didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the clock glowing on his laptop screen—4:18 PM. Forty-two minutes left before the deadline ate him alive. One hour and forty-two minutes before the meeting with the committee. Megumi and Utahime would kill him if he ruined their club presentation. 

He bit down on his lip hard, brows drawn tight, fingers tapping restless against the table. His other hand shoved through his hair again, leaving it even messier than before, strands sticking up at odd angles from earlier frustration. He stared at the digits for a long moment, then glanced back at Gojo. Then the clock again. Then Gojo. His lip caught between his teeth, the skin there already raw. His brows pinched tight as he raked a frustrated hand through his hair, leaving it sticking out in messy tufts—remnants of how many times he’d done the same thing today.

Gojo watched all of it like he was being hypnotized—the furrowed brow, the subtle twitch of Sukuna’s jaw, the faint shine on his lower lip where his teeth had worried it raw. God, he thought, this guy was killing him.

Sukuna’s fingers started to drum faster now, like his pulse was leaking through his hands. He could feel Gojo still staring, waiting, grinning like a devil—so blatantly that it made his skin crawl. His eyes flicked back to the numbers on the screen, then to the clock ticking mercilessly in the corner. Forty minutes left. He ran a hand down his face. He knew damn well there was no point even thinking about asking Uraume. For all his loyalty to Sukuna, for all the ways he hovered like a shadow, he was hopeless the moment books and numbers were involved. Uraume could snap someone’s neck in a heartbeat, could glare the soul out of Yuuji’s friends without breaking stride—but academics? He sucks.

And it wasn’t like he had time to figure it out himself. He could brute force a lot of things, but not numbers. Not with the clock strangling him. Asking anyone else in this room was out of the question too—he didn’t know them, and even if he did, he wasn’t about to humiliate himself by asking strangers about his assignment. 

Which left this bastard Gojo in front of him.

Sukuna’s stomach twisted. He hated the thought of giving that smug bastard even one ounce of satisfaction. But what was the alternative? Let his pride drag him down until he failed the class, tanked his grades, lost his scholarship? No. That wasn’t an option. He’d worked too hard to get here, fought too much to keep his footing.

So he swallowed down the burn of his ego, the bile of frustration, and made the only move he could. Finally, Sukuna blew out a sharp breath and muttered, not quite looking at him, “…You’re good with numbers, right?”

Satoru’s grin spread instantly, like he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket. “Ahhh, so that’s it. You do want something from me.” His voice was low and sing-song, meant only for Sukuna, but still loud enough to earn another irritated glance from a student two tables over.

“Shut up,” Sukuna snapped, jaw tightening. His hand clenched around his pen hard enough that it clicked. “…I just need to know how to set this up. The equations. That’s it.”

Tilted his head, Satoru still smiling but softer now, almost unbearably gentle. “You could’ve just said you needed help, y’know.”

Sukuna finally forced himself to meet his eyes. “I’m saying it now. So—help me. Or don’t. I don’t care.” The words came out like gravel, heavy with pride even as his knee bounced restlessly under the table.

Satoru leaned closer, so close Sukuna could catch the faint scent of his cologne—something sharp, like cedar and citrus. He lowered his voice into a whisper. “Of course I’ll help you, sweetheart. Let me see what’s giving you so much trouble.”

“Don’t call me that.” Sukuna snapped under his breath, glaring daggers at him. 

Satoru raised both hands in mock surrender, grin never faltering. “Okay, okay. Just Sukuna then. Okay. Got it.”

Sukuna didn’t bother replying. Instead, he shoved the open notebook across the table, jabbing a finger at the problems he couldn’t solve. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if daring Satoru to make a joke about it. Satoru didn’t. He just leaned in, his smile softening as his eyes flicked down to the page. “Alright,” he said simply, and slid closer, close enough that Sukuna startled at the sudden nearness.

The pen scratched as Satoru began to explain, pointing at the equation and tables, breaking it down step by step. “See, here—you’re overcomplicating it. This part cancels out. And once you shift it, it’s really just this.” His voice dropped to a steady rhythm, almost too casual, like teaching Sukuna was the most natural thing in the world.

Sukuna kept his eyes on the paper, brows knitted tight, trying to follow. His jaw flexed, his forehead creased—he hated numbers, hated how they slipped through his grasp no matter how hard he concentrated.

But Satoru, maddeningly patient, leaned closer with each explanation. And while Sukuna wrestled with the equation, Satoru’s gaze lingered not on the paper, but on him—the furrow of his brow, the way his lashes dipped low when he focused, every tiny twitch of frustration written across his face. Sukuna didn’t notice. He was too busy trying not to lose his mind over the numbers in front of him.

From this close, Satoru barely saw the notebook anymore. His sunglasses tilted forward until the edge of his frames brushed against Sukuna’s bangs, and still the other boy didn’t flinch, too locked in on the last three questions in front of him. Satoru forgot the rest of the library too. The hum of the air conditioner, the faint shuffle of other students, even the ticking clock above the desk—all of it fell away.

The late afternoon sun streamed in through the tall side windows, slanting across the table. It caught on Sukuna’s skin, warm and golden, and Satoru realized—he wasn’t as pale as Yuuji. There was a subtle tan there, the kind you only noticed when the light hit just right, making his features sharper, his tattoos darker, like ink drawn over bronze.

His dark blue hoodie was too big, hanging off one shoulder, making his frame look smaller than it probably was. A glimpse of bone at his collar, Satoru can see his collar bone—So thin, it made Sukuna look fragile in a way Satoru hadn’t expected. Fragile, but still edged with steel.

And his face—God, his face.

Satoru leaned closer, so close now that their bangs almost brushed, so close Satoru could trace the faint crease between Sukuna’s brows as he scowled at the numbers. Yuuji’s face lived there too, but different—where Yuuji’s features softened with warmth, Sukuna’s cut sharper, colder. Where Yuuji carried an openness that invited people in, Sukuna had built walls, brick by brick, daring anyone to try scaling them.

Satoru let his eyes linger longer than he should once again, drinking in details as though he were afraid they’d vanish: the way Sukuna’s lips pressed tight in focus, the small twitch of his jaw when he clenched his teeth, the fall of his lashes against his cheek when he blinked. Freckles on both of his upper chin under his eyes. Eyes rimmed so red, it's beautiful. Every tiny thing felt magnified in the silence of the library, touched golden by the fading light of late afternoon.

He’d never say it aloud, but it almost felt unfair—how someone could look this devastatingly human and still carry themselves like they were untouchable.

Satoru tilted his head, grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. If Sukuna had any idea how he looked right now, haloed in late sunlight, he’d never let Satoru sit this close again.

And time slipped by unnoticed. The library’s quiet hum faded into the background until all Satoru really heard was the faint scratch of Sukuna’s pen, the occasional frustrated sigh, and the soft click of laptop keys. Satoru’d completely abandoned his own work—whatever problem set he’d been scribbling on before was long forgotten. His whole attention was trained on the boy across from him.

Sukuna’s concentration was a thing of its own. His hand would pause, grip tightening around the pen like he was about to snap it in half—then loosen again, scribbling tentative answers, only to cross them out seconds later. Every so often he’d push a hand back through his already-messy hair, exhaling sharply through his nose, the picture of stubborn frustration.

And sometimes, he would look up—hesitant, reluctant—and ask Satoru about a step he didn’t understand. Each time, Satoru leaned in, voice kept low but impossibly gentle, walking him through the process like coaxing a child through their first lesson. He smiled without even thinking about it, patient in a way that felt almost foreign to himself. If anyone else had seen it, they’d never believe he was capable of it.

Half an hour bled away like that. Golden light dimmed to orange, stretching longer shadows across their table. Finally, Sukuna gave one last sharp tap on his keyboard, then slumped back, shoulders sagging as the screen confirmed the submission had gone through.

Satoru grinned, stretching his arms out lazily like he’d just finished the assignment himself. “Well?” he drawled, tilting his head, blue eyes never leaving Sukuna. “After all that—what do I get for helping you out?”

Sukuna’s glare could’ve cut glass. His brows knit together, lips pressed thin as though the very idea of owing Satoru anything offended him down to his bones.

“…What do you want?” he muttered, the words dragged out like they cost him everything in his life.

For a second, Satoru just blinked—then his grin spread slowly and bright, his heart leaping like he’d just been handed a gift he hadn’t dared expect. He’d been teasing, fishing, ready to get brushed off with another scowl. He hadn’t thought Sukuna would actually entertain the idea. God, he really didn’t know when to quit, did he?

Satoru propped his chin in his palm, still staring at him, and tried to think fast. What did he even want? The real answer was too complicated.

But instead of blurting something stupid, his mind wandered back—through the past week of trailing after Sukuna, watching him, studying him like a puzzle he couldn’t stop touching. Every class changed, every smoke broke with that shadow of his bodyguard—Uraume—every time he ducked into the art club room, Satoru had been there, hovering at the edges, waiting.

He’d called in favors, hired someone to pull threads, dig up whatever could be dug up about the elusive twin who wore his silence like armor. A little reckless? Sure. But when has recklessness ever stopped him?

Yuuji would probably throttle him if he ever found out—storm into his apartment, fists swinging, eyes blazing with betrayal. That’s my brother, Satoru. He’s not your toy to pry apart.

And yet… Satoru couldn’t help it. With Yuuji gone, the itch had only gotten worse. Something in his gut screamed there was more here, something festering under the surface of the Ryoumen name, something dangerous—and Sukuna was sitting right in the middle of it.

So he’d followed. And watched. And the more he saw, the more he knew—about Sukuna’s habits, his secrets, the small cracks in his façade when he thought no one was paying attention. Piece by piece, Sukuna was unfolding before him.

And now, sitting here, actually being asked what he wanted, Satoru felt the strangest mix of triumph and softness. What do I want?

—---------------

A week. Just one damn week, and Satoru already knew Sukuna better than most people on this campus probably ever would. Not because Sukuna wanted him to—hell no, the guy would rather chew glass than let him in—but because Satoru had made it his business. Literally.

He’d followed him everywhere. Lecture halls, the art club room, smoke breaks behind the gym. He even trailed him off campus more than once, far enough to see where he worked his late shifts at this Shigure restaurant he went with the gang days ago. And because of that Satoru sure Sukuna was just biding his time before snapping Satoru’s neck. Either way, Satoru didn’t care.

Since that second committee meeting, he’d been watching Sukuna more closely. At the art club, he caught the way Sukuna’s eyes lit when he worked on his art, the way his hands moved as he sketched ideas. He wasn’t cold then—he was alive. Focused. Passionate.

And when Sukuna—with Megumi and Utahime—met with students from different departments talking about their project for the anniversary, Satoru hung back, ignored like some weirdo shadowing the group. Utahime gave him that ‘you’re a freak’ look, and Megumi didn’t even bother hiding his annoyance. But Sukuna? He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t acknowledge Satoru, but he also didn’t chase him away. That was enough. And Satoru saw it—the faint curve of Sukuna’s mouth when he shook hands with someone new. A small smile, fleeting, but real. A smile Sukuna had never once thrown his way. Or even Yuuji’s.

Then there was that night outside Shigure. Satoru had followed Sukuna past midnight, intending to see where he went after his shift. What he found instead stopped him cold. Sukuna crouched in a narrow back alley, laughing softly as a pair of stray cats wove around his ankles. He fed them scraps from his pocket, murmuring apologies that he couldn’t bring them home and promise will come back tomorrow and everyday to give them something to eat. Something about “Yoru would be pissed.” if he brings another stray cat home. Satoru didn’t even know who Yoru was—but the sound of Sukuna’s laugh stuck with him.

The sharp edges he’d come to expect—the scowl, the death glare, the barbed tongue—were gone. In their place was something startlingly normal. A boy with slightly pointed canines that flashed when he grinned, cheeks warming with color, eyes shining with enthusiasm, voice gentle in a way Satoru had never heard before. And that was when he realized, Sukuna wasn’t the monster he’d assumed had abandoned Yuuji. Sukuna wasn’t some cold-blooded brother who hated Yuuji dan his family. Sukuna was just… a kid. A kid who looked like he’d been through too much, but who still laughed at stray cats, tried to be polite with strangers and poured himself into his art.

Satoru’s curiosity had flared into something sharper, heavier. He needed to know more. Needed to piece together the truth behind Sukuna’s silence, because the Sukuna he’d watched with his own eyes didn’t line up with the cruel version he’d built in his head.

So he’d done what any Gojo would do—he hired someone. Getting information was easy when your name carried weight. One call, one fat envelope of cash, and suddenly he had files, timestamps, blurry CCTV stills. Answers he hadn’t even known he was desperate for.

And now, looking at Sukuna across the table—Satoru felt the weight of it all. The shame of knowing he’d misjudged him. The guilt of every cruel word, every mocking smile, he admitted silently; You’re not who I thought you were, and maybe I’m the real bastard for treating you like you were.

So, after a while, just watching wasn’t enough. Sukuna was a locked door, and Satoru had never been the type to walk away from a closed door, a locked one especially. 

Getting the information hadn’t been hard. Nothing ever was, not for a Gojo. If he wanted to know what some random upperclassman had for breakfast, he could probably make three calls and have a report on his desk before lunch. That was just the kind of access his name bought him—doors opening, people talking, files appearing out of nowhere. So when he’d decided to find out more about Ryoumen Sukuna, it wasn’t really a question of if. It was a matter of how long he felt like waiting. Satoru was sure that if Yuuji knew he was stalking his brother like this, he would get one or three punches from Yuuji.

The private investigator he hired—a famous detective who works for Gojo for years—hadn’t even needed long to drop the first breadcrumb into Satoru’s hands. He hadn’t even needed to lift a finger beyond tossing a few bills and a name to a private investigator. And three days later, a neat file had landed in his lap. Three days. For anyone else, it might’ve taken months. For Satoru? It was just another Tuesday.

That was the thing—digging up Sukuna’s history had been easy. Too easy. The harder part was sitting with what those pages actually said.

Seven years ago, Sukuna didn’t just “disappear,” like Yuuji and the others believed. He’d been taken in by the Ryoumen family. Not vanished. Not gone. Relocated. 

What happened behind those walls, nobody knew. Records vanished. People kept their mouths shut. But the detective traced enough: Sukuna had lived in one of the Ryoumen mansions down in Fukuoka for three years. After that, his flight history showed a move to America, another three years abroad, then back to Japan about a year ago.

And now here he was, sitting across from Satoru in a dusty corner of the campus library, tattoos curling out of his sleeves, hoodie hanging too big on his frame, looking like a secret with a heartbeat.

Satoru leaned back in his chair, pretending to mull over what Sukuna had asked, but really his head was racing. Every piece he collected only made the puzzle bigger. And God help him—he’d never wanted to solve the puzzle so badly.

According to the file, he left Fukuoka a year ago. Took a night bus from there to Tokyo—illegally, under someone else’s name. He didn’t fly, didn’t take the train. The private investigator had traced Sukuna’s movements after that bus ride into Tokyo. And barely a day later, there was a receipt, a timestamp, even a grainy CCTV still outside a tattoo parlor in Shinjuku. Sukuna, hood pulled low, stepping through the door. The note beneath it was blunt: “Client appears to have begun full-body tattoo work at this location.”

Sukuna looked younger then, thinner, almost boyish compared to the man Satoru knew now. No ink yet, no hardened glare. Look like a high school runaway in an oversized hoodie who hadn’t figured out how to disguise himself.

Fifteen days was how long Sukuna had stayed inside that tattoo parlor’s orbit—back and forth, appointment after appointment, until the kid who had walked in with bare skin walked out completely covered. Not just arms or a shoulder, but his face too. The report had a timestamped photo outside the shop two weeks later: Sukuna stepping into the street, hoodie half-zipped, dark lines peeking up his neck. His whole body was remade in ink.

From there, his trail turned restless. The detective had tracked credit slips, motel registries, cash withdrawals. Sukuna moved like someone allergic to standing still—cheap motels, one after another, barely a week in each. Three months of shifting beds, shifting addresses, until he finally settled long enough to rent an apartment.

Even then, Sukuna didn’t stay put. Two more apartments in the span of 6 months, each move quieter, less noticeable, before he landed in the building he lived in now. A place designed for anonymity. A complex where tenants avoided eye contact, where no one asked questions, where privacy came cheap but absolute.

And the last page of Sukuna’s file carried a note, “There are unverified reports that Ryoumen Sukuna may have acted as the Ryoumen head’s second during high-level dealings with clients. Several sources describe a ‘young man’ often present in meetings, silent but involved. Identity not confirmed, though details suggest it was Ryoumen Sukuna, the heir of Ryoumen Clan.”

Satoru didn’t need anyone to explain what that meant. He’d grown up surrounded by people who traded power like currency, who smiled while twisting knives behind each other’s backs. Being the second-in-command to someone like the Ryoumen clan wasn’t a ceremonial role—it was everything. It meant Sukuna hadn’t just been present. He’d been involved. Trusted. Groomed, maybe. And that meant that whatever secrets the Ryoumen carried, Sukuna had seen them all up close.

Satoru, when he first read it, connected dots the detective hadn’t bothered to. Of course Sukuna had known him from the very first meeting. Anyone who’d moved in the kind of circles the Ryoumen moved in would’ve known the Gojo name. Hell, Sukuna probably knew more about him than he realized. And that thought stuck with him.

Thinking about it now made his jaw tighten. It wasn’t hard to picture—Sukuna trailing the head clan into a boardroom, keeping his eyes low while predators twice his age seized him up. A teenager shoved into the same room as men who made fortunes bleeding others dry.

The anger that rose in him wasn’t at Sukuna. Not anymore. What kind of family lets a boy shoulder their dirtiest work? What kind of clan grooms a child to sink in their poison?

Satoru sat back, staring at Sukuna's eyes. Shit, Satoru thought, eyes softening despite himself. I’ve been such an ass to him.

For weeks, he'd been wrong. Wrong to treat Sukuna like some villain to expose. Wrong to assume the tattoos, the silence, the walls around him were proof he didn’t care. A sharp tongue here, a smug grin there—poking, provoking, anything to make the guy snap back. It was fun. Addictive, even. But now?

Now he couldn’t shake the image of a younger Sukuna, barely nineteen, sitting in some dark boardroom while the higher up pulled the strings. Couldn’t stop picturing him watching, listening, absorbing every ruthless deal like it was the only way to breathe.

And Satoru—he’d laughed at him. Teased him. Called him names just to see how far he could push before Sukuna’s eyes lit with fire. He thought he was clever, that it was what Sukuna deserves. But Sukuna wasn’t just some moody guy in a hoodie with too many tattoos. He was a kid who’d had everything stolen and then been forced to grow up with chains still on his wrists.

Satoru’s throat tightened. He hated the thought that, in Sukuna’s eyes, he probably looked just like everyone else who used him—someone who wouldn’t shut up, who wanted something from him, who treated him like he was the villain, who hurted him. 

And for the first time in a long while, Satoru wished he could take something back. The smirks, the jabs, the careless words. Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, guilt creeping in where his smirk used to be. He’d been cruel, in his own way. Not with fists, but with words, with assumptions. And at that moment, he finally understood what it was he wanted from Sukuna. So, Satoru looked at Sukuna—really looked at him—before answering. 

Satoru exhaled slowly, then said the word out loud, steady and deliberate—enough for Sukuna to hear it clearly.

The air between them was still. For once, no smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, no playful lilt softened his voice. Just sincerity, bare and heavy, as if he’d dropped all his usual armor in a single breath.

—---------------

“Forgiveness.”

For a moment, Sukuna thought he’d misheard. The word hung between them, too soft, too heavy, too unreal to have actually come from Gojo’s mouth.

He blinked. His chest tightened with confusion. His eyes snapped up, narrowing at the man across from him. Gojo wasn’t smirking or grinning. He wasn’t laughing. He just sat there, gaze steady, as if he’d just dropped something fragile and was waiting to see if it would break.

“…What?” Sukuna finally asked, his voice sharper than he meant it to be, like he needed to cut through the silence just to make sure he hadn’t heard wrong.

“Forgiveness,” Gojo said again, the word steady, startlingly honest. “I want to say I’m sorry. And I want you to forgive me.”

Sukuna froze, the word settling over him like dust in a room that hadn’t been touched for years. Forgiveness, he said. It was absurd. 

No one ever asked that of him—no one had ever thought they owed him anything. If anything, people usually treated him like he was the one who should be grateful, who should stay quiet and take what he was given. But Gojo? Of all people, Gojo—the man who’d taunted him the first time they met, followed him around like an annoying shadow—was the last person Sukuna expected to say it.

His jaw tightened, his tongue pressing hard against the inside of his cheek. The confusion in his chest boiled into anger. His brows drew together, a harsh line forming between them, and his eyes narrowed into a glare, “For what?” Sukuna snapped, his voice low but bristling with disbelief. “What the hell are you even talking about? Don’t—” He let out a humorless laugh, bitter and sharp, shaking his head. “Don’t mess with me, Gojo. If this is another one of your jokes, drop it.”

Across from him, Gojo didn’t flinch. His hands rested lightly on the table. But the grin was gone. Instead, his expression was stripped bare—no cocky tilt of his lips, no teasing glint in his eyes. Just something quiet. Steady. Almost earnest.

The contrast made Sukuna’s stomach twist. It would’ve been easier if Gojo laughed, easier if he rolled his eyes and said gotcha. But he didn’t. And that unsettled Sukuna more than anything.

Gojo let the silence stretch between them for a moment, like he was choosing each word carefully. His gaze never wavered, fixed on Sukuna as though he didn’t care how sharp that glare was, how much venom laced his voice.

“I’m sorry I judged you,” Gojo said finally, his tone lower than usual, stripped of its usual playfulness. “I took what little I knew and decided you deserved every jab, every word I threw at you.” He exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the table before going still again. “I’m sorry, I was wrong.”

Sukuna blinked, his scowl faltering just slightly.

Gojo leaned in closer, not to crowd him but to make sure the words landed. “You didn’t deserve that. No one does. And if anyone deserves an apology, it’s you. That’s all I want, Sukuna. Just to say I’m sorry. And if you feel like giving it… your forgiveness.” His lips curved into the faintest of smiles—gentle, almost self-deprecating. “But if you don’t, that’s fine too. I’ll take whatever answer you give.”

Sukuna’s laugh, it came out sharp and bitter, his jaw tightening as he leaned back in his chair. The muscles in his brow knotted, his voice low but edged like a blade. “And how little exactly did you know, Gojo? What do you think I deserve?” Sukuna snapped, his words cutting. His fingers curled into fists on the table, nails pressing into his palms. “And since when do you get to decide what I deserve and what I don't?"

His glare locked onto Gojo’s face, searing and unrelenting. The weight of it hung in the space between them, Sukuna’s chest rising and falling faster than before, as if even asking that question cost him something.

“That’s why I’m apologizing,” Gojo said quietly, his usual levity stripped away. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, everything I’ve said, everything I thought about you. I shouldn’t have treated you that way.”

The words landed heavier than Sukuna expected. Instead of easing the weight in his chest, they pressed harder, he could barely breathe. His eyes burning as if he could glare away the tremor creeping into his voice. “…Now tell me, Gojo,” Sukuna said, low and ragged, like each syllable was forced through clenched teeth. “What did you do? What did you know?”

It wasn’t anger alone. It was fear—fear that Gojo had pried too deep, that he had uncovered everything Sukuna had tried so hard to bury.

“You know Yuuji is my friend,” Gojo said carefully, hands tightening together on the table. “He shared things. And I did a little digging, and..” The words had barely left his mouth when Sukuna snapped. “Oh, fuck you, Gojo.” His voice cut through the quiet of the library, sharp enough to turn a few heads. His chest heaved, the anger in his tone edged with something raw. He leaned forward, eyes burning holes into Gojo’s face. “Really, Gojo. Just fuck off.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and brittle. Even the faint scratch of pens and shuffling pages from nearby tables seemed to hesitate.

Gojo swallowed, his smirk long gone. Lowering his voice, “Look, that’s why I’m asking for your forgiveness. I’m sorry for doing that. For everything I did, everything I said…” His gaze softened, regret clear in every word. “I’m sorry. Truly. I am.”

They sat in silence, stared at each other, eyes locked across the table. Minutes passed, the weight of everything unsaid pressing heavier than the air around them. Neither moved. Neither looked away.

Finally, Sukuna broke it. His voice was low, edged, “You know, Gojo. I didn’t expect this from you. And don’t flatter yourself, I know things about you too, you know. Not much, but enough to judge you just the same. So don’t bother apologizing.”

Gojo didn’t answer. He only watched Sukuna, gaze lingering like he was trying to read every line in Sukuna’s face.

The silence stretched again before Sukuna spoke once more, quieter this time, his tone slipping softer than he meant to, “Just… please, stop.” he said, almost a whisper, “Whatever you think you know, leave it there. Leave me alone.”

Sukuna continued, voice sharpened, hard edges cutting through the quiet. “I’m not Yuuji. And I’m not your friend.” He let the words land one by one, watching Gojo’s face for the reaction he was sure would come. “Don’t act like you need to apologize or you’re responsible for this just because you’re Yuuji’s friend. Just because I'm related to Yuuji and you feel sorry for me. I don’t need that. I don't need your apology, I don't need your pity.”

He fell silent, waiting—half-expecting Gojo to snap back, to mock, to tell him he was being dramatic, to tell him to just shut up. But Gojo didn’t interrupt. He just listened. Every line, every word Sukuna spat out, every quiet, hurtful truth, Gojo took in without a flinch. No snide remark, no retort. Nothing. Just stared at him like what he said right now mattered to him. 

Sukuna let out a breath, he felt so tired suddenly, so tired. “So—let’s drop this nonsense. Thank you for your help, I guess. And now let me finish the presentation. If I don’t get my slides ready, Megumi and Utahime will kill me. Or worse, I will lose my scholarship.”

Sukuna steered his gaze back to the laptop screen as if the half empty slides there could steady him, the storm in his chest a little quieter for the moment. Around them, the library hummed on, oblivious.

And Satoru sat there in the silence Sukuna left behind, the words still echoing, sharp but steady in his chest. He didn’t miss the bite in Sukuna’s tone, the walls he’d built with every sentence, the clear line drawn between them. His apology had been dismissed, tossed aside like it meant nothing. But still, beneath all that, Sukuna’d answered. He hadn’t shut down the conversation. That alone left Satoru with a flicker of warmth in his chest. For Satoru, that was something.

He leaned back in his chair, said a quiet “Okay” to Sukuna and pretended to look casual, but his mind was far from it. This, what they had just now, words exchanged without barbs sharp enough to draw blood. For once, they hadn’t torn each other apart. Well, at least not like they used to be a few weeks ago.

As Sukuna bent over his laptop again, Satoru found himself wondering—was this it? Would tomorrow be the same as always, Sukuna cold and silent again, walls locked tight? Or had something shifted here, however small? Maybe this was the start of something different. Maybe—just maybe—they could inch closer. Satoru was hopeful, he’d like to know Sukuna better.

For now, Satoru kept those thoughts locked away. It wasn’t as if he could admit to anyone—least of all Yuuji—that he was, in some unguarded way, drawn to Sukuna. Absolutely not. He couldn’t be drawn to Sukuna. He shouldn’t be. Yet the idea clung stubbornly to him, a thorn he couldn’t pull out. So he settled for a smile, gaze flicking to Sukuna’s furrowed brow, and told himself that even this—this fragile, tentative truce—was already more than he’d ever dared hope for.

-------------------

Chapter Text

My dear, sweet Yuuji,

​If you are holding this letter, then you've grown into the man I always believed you would become—a man strong enough to carry the truth I never had the courage to speak aloud. It feels strange, a conversation spoken across time, a final confession whispered from a past that shaped your present. But there are things I could never say to your face, things that have weighed on me, a heavy silence carried for years. Today, I will finally leave them with you.

Yuuji, ​I was born into the cold, gilded cage of the Ryoumen clan, the only daughter of a family that saw people not as souls, but as tools. I had an older brother once—Ryoumen Atsuya. He was brave in a way I didn't understand as a child. He cut all ties, refusing the poisoned chalice of our family’s power, turning his back on their cruel legacy. I couldn’t grasp his choice then. To me, life within the Ryoumen walls seemed perfect; everything I wanted, I had. It wasn't until later that I began to feel the heavy, suffocating weight of the chains hidden beneath the glittering gold.

​And then I met your father, Jin Itadori. He was the first person who showed me what living really meant—not a life of power, but a life of simple, messy, beautiful joys. His laugh, a warm, booming sound that filled our small world; his gentle, stubborn kindness; the way he looked at me and saw me, not as a Ryoumen, but as a woman, as a person deserves to be loved.

It was with him that I first learned what it meant to be truly free and truly loved. Slowly, we fell into a quiet, profound love, and for a time, I thought that was enough.

But the Ryoumen do not forgive disobedience.

After Atsuya left, my father as the head of the clan decided my future would secure their strength. He would never allow his only daughter to love a man of the Itadori line. He wanted heirs bound to power, not love. So, just like my brother, I ran. I cut every tie, turned my back on the Ryoumen name, and chose to live with your father.

At first, they did not care. A daughter was nothing to them. Daughters were only pieces to trade, tools to bind alliances. But then—word of my pregnancy reached them.

That was when everything changed.

My father and the clan elders—they came for me. They demand an heir. They wanted my child. They wanted you, Yuuji.

I was still so early in my pregnancy when my mother asked me to meet her secretly. Against my better judgment, I went to see her—without telling your father. I don’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps some part of me was still chained to the family that raised me, still desperate for their approval even after I had run. But my mother did not come alone. She brought my father with her. I should have known. Of course she would betray me.

And there, the three of us sat together for the first time since I had escaped from that family.

That night, they made their demands clear. They wanted me back in the family. They wanted my child. They wanted a heir.

But I refused. How could I not? I loved your father more than my own life. To give him up, to give you up, to give our family up, to step back into their grasp—it would have killed me.

But then they threatened me. I was born in Ryoumen. I knew their threats were never empty. They would have destroyed me… destroyed us. 

So I did what Ryoumen do best. I lied.

I told them I was carrying twins. Two babies. I promised them one. I looked my father in the eye and swore that when the time came, they would have their heir. But it was all a lie. You were the only one inside me then, Yuuji. My only child.

I went home that night with a secret bound between the three of us. No one else would ever know. Not your father. Not your grandfather. Not anyone.

I lied to everyone, Yuuji. To my husband, to your grandfather, to every person who ever looked me in the eye and congratulated me. I lied when I smiled and told them I was carrying twins.

At first, it was only words, only a desperate story I spun to keep our small family safe. But I knew the Ryoumen would not wait forever. Sooner or later, they would demand proof.

And so… I made the lie real.

I reached out to someone I should never have called—a friend from my past, a doctor who still dealt in shadows. As a daughter of the Ryoumen, I knew too well what sort of work could be done behind closed doors, the kind of experiments that blurred the line between medicine and cruelty.

Together, we did something dangerous. Reckless. Something no mother should ever agree to. While you were still growing inside me, they placed another life beside you. Your brother, created outside my womb from your father’s blood and mine.

It was a procedure that could have destroyed us both. I could have lost you. I could have lost everything. But I was desperate, Yuuji. Desperate to protect your father. Desperate to protect you. Desperate to protect my little family.

And so the lie became flesh.

From then on, I carried not just you, but also your brother. The one the Ryoumen would believe was promised to them.

That is how Sukuna came into this world—not by love, but by a mother’s lie. He wasn’t born of the same love that made you. He was born of my fear, my deception, my need to protect the family I chose.

As time went on, after you and Sukuna were born, the consequences of what I had done began to show. I grew sickly. And Sukuna paid a heavy price for what I had done too. He was smaller, more fragile. He caught every illness that came through winter and spring. He needed extra blankets, more careful food, a patience with learning that made nights stretch long for all of us.

Beyond the physical effects, a lifetime of guilt consumed me. Sukuna—who began as the child I had made to give away to the Ryoumen—became so much more than that to me.

​I loved you, Yuuji, with all the simplicity and clarity of a sunny day. I loved Sukuna with the same depth. But I felt unworthy.

Giving Sukuna affection only increased my shame. And loving him was different—tainted in my eyes by the truth of how he came to be. Every touch felt like theft. Every kiss on his forehead felt like penance. Even looking into his eyes was painful, because each time I did I remembered what I had done to that small child—remembered the sin I had placed upon him.

And our relationship worsened. The love I wanted to give could not reach him, and Sukuna grew into a boy who resembled the Ryoumen more and more. 

He grew guarded. The warmth I wanted to offer him slid off like water on stone. Where I tried to lift him, shame pushed my hands back. I could not touch his face, I could not hug him without the ghost of my lie pressing on my throat. To give him the affection he needed felt like rewarding myself for a crime I’d committed. 

So I retreated. I gave what love I could, but it always felt thin near him. I think that is how he learned to harden. He became what they wanted him to become in his anger and in his survival; and I—who made the choice that put him there—watched as my mercy and my cowardice took form in the silence.

Years passed. As the head clan, your grandfather’s death brought the bargain to the surface. My mother remembered—she had not forgotten. When the time came, the pressure on our family tightened like a noose: the business suffered, deals fell through, people stepped away at the whisper of Ryoumen displeasure. Your father broke under it, so did our family. The house grew cold with arguments. The life I had carved with him began to fracture because of the shadow I had promised to placate.

I thought I could dodge it. I tried to keep him, to protect you both. Your father and your grandfather tried to shield our small family from their reach for as long as we could. But threats do not always come in words; sometimes they arrive as poison in a bank account, a missed contract, a client who disappears overnight. We were running out of ways to survive.

And then fear did what fear always does—it pushed me toward the worst kind of choice, again. I told myself I was saving you. I told myself I had no other choice. For the fear of losing your father, for the terror of losing you, I handed Sukuna over to the Ryoumen.

So, I convinced your father to give Sukuna up, that's what Ryoumen wants anyway, and Sukuna was a Ryoumen anyway. Without knowing the whole truth, your father, who was already in a brick of losing his business, now also loses his son. 

We handed Sukuna over to the Ryoumen.

I remember the day like a bad dream. I told myself I would bring him again, that I would pull him back from their grasp. I would save him. But I failed.

For years since, my nights have been a procession of regret. I sit at our table and I can feel his absence like a missing tooth. I see you laugh on bright days and I feel a knife stab me. How could I enjoy these simple, golden pieces of life while my other son crumbled elsewhere?

I will not scrub away what I did with excuses. I accepted an outcome that doomed my child to a life I could not bear to watch. I chose the safety of our family over the body that had a pulse of its own and a soul that deserved better. 

I will not ask for your forgiveness. I will not ask for Sukuna forgiveness because I know I do not deserve it. I know I betrayed Sukuna, I betrayed my husband, I betrayed you, I betrayed our family. You all have the right to hate me. 

If your hatred falls upon me because of what I did, I understand. I will accept it. If Sukuna’s eyes will never warm to me again, if he hates me, that too is a thing I will hold against myself until the end. But if there is any thread left of mercy in your hands for me, Yuuji, please do one last thing for me.

Please find him.

Bring your brother back if you can. Stand by him in the ways I could not. Fight for him in ways I failed to imagine.

I failed him, Yuuji. I failed both of you. All I can do now is tell you the truth, and beg a favor I never had the courage to grant myself.

Be braver than I was.

I am sorry for everything, for my lies, for the nights I pretended everything was fine while something in me was breaking. I am sorry for how my cowardice shaped our life. I am sorry for the life you had to carry knowing I kept secrets from you and from your father.

If you hate me after reading this—if you cannot forgive—I will understand. But please, before you let my name sink into anger alone, promise me you will try, Yuuji. Even if it fails, even if it breaks you, even if he spits your name in fury, even if he never answers your calls, go. Try.

Let my failure, let your anger be the fuel for what you do next. If you can take one small, terrible risk to bring your brother back—then do it. For me, for him.

I love you. Both of you. I’m sorry for being selfish even until the very end.

—Mom

Chapter Text

------------------

The student council meeting room hummed with low chatter, chairs scraping across the polished floor as everyone settled in. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden beams. Satoru leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, sunglasses perched carelessly on his nose.

Mai leaned back in her chair, flipping through the clipboard in her hands before speaking. Her tone was brisk, efficient — she clearly wanted things moving. “Alright. Today’s meeting goal is simple: finalize the anniversary theme and check the progress reports from last week. I hope you all brought updates, because by the end of this meeting we need decisions.”

The room hummed with that low, anticipatory buzz — people shuffling papers, opening laptops, some just sitting straighter. The meeting carried on with a steady rhythm, each update stacking neatly on top of the last. What followed was nearly an hour of steady reports. 

Uraume, Yuta and Toge went first. They slid a neatly compiled packet across the table, pages clipped together with precision. It contained a full list of every club signed on to participate in opening Cultural Booths—names, contact information, and the point-person assigned to each. Mai nodded approvingly as the list was passed down the row. Next came Maki and Nanami. Their updates were just as efficient: a printed rundown of scheduled performances, rehearsals, and technical requirements. Maki handed out the copies one by one. 

Food stalls were less straightforward. Todo leaned forward with all the enthusiasm of a man born for this assignment, while Panda explained that the current progress mostly sat with their drafted layout map. “Designs are still pending,” Panda admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “We’re waiting for the confirmed theme before locking things in.” Kugisaki rolled her eyes but added that hygiene permits would be filed next week, once the final vendor list came in. And then they gave a rundown of food logistics, listing which clubs had confirmed their interest in opening booths. 

For competitions, Naoya cleared his throat, “Well, the volleyball competition is locked,” he said with quiet satisfaction. “All approvals done. But soccer was still stalled. We’ll need Itadori’s sign-off,” Megumi’s expression tightening when he noted Yuuji’s ongoing absence.

And finally, the last item on the agenda: the art exhibition, the centerpiece of the festival’s theme. All eyes turned toward the Art Club’s representatives. Utahime gestured politely toward the front and Megumi, seated stiffly beside her, gave a slight nod in Sukuna’s direction. It was a wordless handoff, a sign of trust. Sukuna rose from his chair, every movement deliberate, and walked toward the projector screen. The hum of the room quieted almost instinctively. He set down his laptop, the afternoon sun cutting across his profile as he prepared to present the theme that would color the entire anniversary.

Sukuna sat at the front chair near the board as the group’s chatter dimmed. When Utahime nodded at him to start, he exhaled slowly, then spoke, voice even but firm, “Our proposal is called Domain Expansion.”

A couple of heads turned, curious. Sukuna tapped the board with his finger, emphasizing each point, “The idea is simple: every department, every club, every booth, gets to create their own ‘domain’—a space that represents them. Think of it like a world within a world.”

He paused, eyes scanning the room to see if they were keeping up, “Basically,” Sukuna began, his tone even, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table, “each booth will have its own ‘world’ — its own distinct design and atmosphere. Think of it as creating small, immersive spaces. The goal is to pull visitors in, to make them feel like they’ve stepped into something unique every time they move from one booth to the next.”

He paused for a moment, glancing briefly at the notes before continuing. “Students from the Art Department will work directly with each club to help design and build these spaces. That way, every booth isn’t just functional — it becomes part of the larger exhibition. It’s not just stalls lined up side by side. It’s a collection of different ‘domains’, stitched together into one festival. Students and visitors won’t just look at what we do—they’ll feel it. Each club’s and booth's creativity, energy, and personality condensed into its own little ‘domain.’”

There was a subtle spark in his eyes now, “The theme also plays on who we are as a campus. A mirror of who we are. This university has a reputation for cultivating formidable talent—for producing people who are proven to master their environment. Why not embrace that ambition? Each of us boldly carves out our own space here. Our own color, our own territory. Our own Domain."

Sukuna leaned back again, letting the silence sit before finishing, quieter but sharper, “So when people leave this anniversary festival, they don’t just remember food stalls or performances. They will remember how it felt to step into a dozen different worlds, all expanding from this one place.”

Utahime kept her posture straight, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. She’d agreed to Sukuna’s rough draft before, but watching him actually present it — controlled, confident, like he owned the room — made her strangely proud.

Over the past week, she’d been forced into close orbit with him: long afternoons in the art room sketching layouts, late nights revising proposals, quiet moments walking across campus after meetings. At first, she’d braced herself for someone difficult — arrogant, cold, maybe even reckless. But Sukuna wasn’t what she’d imagined. He was sharp, yes—sharper than Yuuji even—with that blunt tongue that didn’t care if his words cut. Yet he was also meticulous. Careful. Reliable in a way most students never managed to be. His explanation of Domain Expansion unfolded sharp and steady, every detail precise — the way each club could design its own immersive “territory,” the contrast of aesthetics to make the campus feel alive, the balance between chaos and curation.

A voice piped up from across the table — Panda, of course, “So, wait… would each booth have to design their own space, like a set? Isn’t that a lot of work?”

Sukuna’s gaze slid to him, unimpressed, “Yes, it is a lot of work. Like I said before, the art club will help them, if they want. And yes, each booth or club who participates has to design their own space, like a set. Each club already has its own aesthetic. We’re just asking them to lean into it — to turn what they already are into something people can step into.”

Another hand went up — Yuuta this time, hesitant, “But wouldn’t it get overwhelming? If every club tries to go all-out, it might feel… chaotic?”

Sukuna didn’t sigh, though his expression nearly said it for him, “That’s the point of curation. We as the committee will stagger placements, make sure each ‘domain’ contrasts instead of clashes. The tension makes the whole thing dynamic. It’s supposed to feel alive, not sanitized. We will help them with it so it won’t feel chaotic.”

Utahime nodded firmly at that. As murmurs of agreement spread, Sukuna was nervous. Around the table, heads began to nod. Yuta leaned forward with interest, scribbling notes. Nobara muttered something about how “it actually sounds kinda fun,” which was high praise coming from her. Even Nanami, who rarely wasted words, gave a small approving hum. Maki crossed her arms, lips quirking like she didn’t want to admit she liked it, but did anyway.

And Satoru, sitting two seats over, had been slouching in his chair like usual, spinning a pen between his fingers. As Sukuna went on about his idea of Domain Expansion, the pen stilled. His elbow slipped off the table once, caught clumsily before anyone noticed, and for the rest of the explanation he leaned forward, chin propped against his hand, gaze fixed on Sukuna. His eyes gleamed like some lovesick fool, as if every syllable Sukuna dropped was a perfectly placed star in a suddenly illuminated night sky. Every precise gesture—the flick of his wrist, the almost careless way he played with the sleeves of his hoodie, the way he explained his idea in detail—was a magnet pulling Satoru closer. Closer and closer, as if Sukuna was a brilliant magnetic north, and with every breath he took, Satoru was the iron filings drawn inexorably closer, fearing that the momentum would soon become a terminal velocity, ensuring he'd not just stumble, but fall too deep to ever find his way back out.

Satoru was still staring. His foot tapped against the floor like he was buzzing with some secret thrill, he looked like he was watching a personal miracle unfold, with his starry-eyed grin he said, “I think it’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Like — wow. You just…” he caught himself, flashing a grin, “…brilliant.” 

Hearing that, Nobara with half the table groaned. Utahime rolled her eyes. It was Mai who finally spoke, her tone brisk but satisfied. “Alright then. Looks like we have our theme.”

And just like that, it was settled. Sukuna’s idea would carry the anniversary. The meeting went on. A few more agenda items, some final checks from Satoru and Mai, notes about deadlines.

Finally, Mai snapped her clipboard shut, “That’s it for today. The theme's set, responsibilities stay the same. Next meeting, I expect every club or student that opens a booth, who participates in this, to submit their concept for their ‘domain’, and if anyone here can get in touch with Itadori please let me know.”

Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled back into folders. One by one, people began filing out of their meeting room, voices overlapping as they made plans for dinner or study groups.

Sukuna stayed seated a moment longer, shoulders relaxed as if the act of presenting had drained him. Uraume, beside him, gathered his notes in silence and when Sukuna finally stood to leave, Satoru fell into step without hesitation, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to trail him out the door. Uraume shot him a glare but Satoru only smiled wider, hands shoved into his pockets, talking about how brilliant and amazing Sukuna idea was.

And Sukuna, hood up and expression unreadable, walked on in silence, as if determined not to give Satoru the satisfaction of a single word. But Satoru didn’t care. He was still looking at Sukuna like he’d just watched someone reinvent fire.

------------------

Sukuna carried on with the rest of the day alone.

Uraume, who’d been clinging to him like always and insisting they had to talk about something important, finally got hauled off by Yuta and Toge. They needed extra hands to start surveying ideas for the traditional attraction booths. Sukuna hadn’t even bothered hiding the relief in his face. He’d promised to hear Uraume out eventually, sure, but right now? He could deal with the damn project first. Who told him to sign up for this anyway.

And Gojo Satoru, that annoying shadow who’d been following him everywhere all week—suddenly gone too. Disappeared like he hadn’t existed. Sukuna didn’t need to guess why. If Megumi had also been missing from the club meeting earlier, leaving only him and Utahime to update the rest about the theme’s approval… It wasn't hard to connect the dots.

It had to be about Yuuji.

It all circled back to Yuuji. It always did. Sukuna felt the corner of his mouth twitch, not into a smile but into something bitter. A flicker of something ugly curled in his chest. Disappointment? Jealousy? He wasn’t sure. But it was there all the same. Of course, if it came down to Yuuji, people would always choose him over Sukuna. They always had. Their parents. Their so-called friends. Everyone. Gojo was no different. Why should he be?

Sukuna told himself he didn’t care. He’d learned how to stop caring years ago. But the sting was harder to shake off this time, and he hated that. Gojo Satoru wasn’t even his friend. He was Yuuji’s friend. So it made perfect sense that he'd choose Yuuji.

The real joke was Sukuna letting himself believe otherwise. Dropping his guard just because Gojo had muttered an apology, like that meant anything. He’d let himself hope. Hoping that someone is finally on his side.

“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a humorless grin.

After finishing up with Utahime and the rest of the art club, Sukuna didn’t waste a second before heading home. Yoru needed to be fed, as Uraume was pulling an all-nighter with Yuuta and Toge. And after that, Sukuna himself had to make his nightly shift at the restaurant, Shigure.

Tonight, Shigure was short-staffed; Haru and Hiro were both out with a fever, meaning they desperately needed his help serving tables. There was no time to waste.

Sukuna walked toward his apartment complex, the city bustle fading into the quieter side streets. The sky was an opaque, starless black, and the air was carrying a sharp, cold edge—a biting wind that made him hunch his shoulders. Don't rain yet, he thought, picking up his pace, hoping to beat the weather before he had to run to Shigure later.

He started a quick, ground-eating jog to shave off the minutes. However, just as he reached the end of the intersection, one block from his apartment building, a cold, prickling sensation feathered the back of his neck. It was the distinct, unsettling feeling of being watched.

Sukuna stopped, turning his head in a swift, sharp movement. Nothing. The street was empty save for the usual few scattered souls inside the brightly lit convenience store, focused on their own late-night errands. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic.

Dismissing it as exhaustion or nerves, Sukuna started walking again. But his gait was different now—no longer a relaxed, quick jog, but long, purposeful strides. He was no longer trying to save time; he was trying to outrun the feeling of being watched. As he reached the entrance of his apartment block, the sensation intensified, morphing from a vague unease into a certainty. Someone was definitely behind him, following his exact trajectory.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized his chest. He broke into a full sprint. His breath immediately turned ragged, his lungs burning as if he were being actively chased.

Why is this happening? He’d never felt this way before. Why now? Was it because he was alone tonight? Was it the absence of Uraume’s steady presence or Gojo’s loud, distracting energy? But he used to walk alone all the time before and he’d never felt like this. Why now? Have they finally found him?

His mind raced, spinning paranoid scenarios. Had his efforts to remain unnoticed—the careful way he walked, the quiet way he spoke, the very specific distance he kept from people—failed? Had he drawn the wrong kind of attention? Was this the consequence of the life he was trying so hard to keep?

The fear fueled his run. The more paranoid and terrified he became, the faster his legs pumped. He reached the complex gasping for air, chest tight with dread. There was no time for the elevator; he slammed his hand against the stairwell door and took the three flights to his floor, two steps at a time.

His room was at the end of the short hallway, right by the stairs. Sukuna fumbled the key, his hand shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. With a desperate, rattling exhale, he jammed it into the lock, threw the door open, and practically fell inside. The door slammed shut, and the deadbolt thrown with a deafening thunk. Only then did Sukuna collapse, sliding down the back of the solid wood, his chest heaving uncontrollably as he leaned against the locked barrier, gulping for air in the suddenly safe darkness.

He’d worked relentlessly to build this precarious sense of normalcy: the university studies, the job at Shigure, the small circle of college friends—he couldn't even call them his friends—, the quiet apartment shared with Uraume. Every interaction, every path taken, had been meticulously chosen to avoid drawing attention. He wanted nothing more than to live unnoticed, blending into the noise of Tokyo, just another student trying to get by.

Yet, deep down, he knew the truth. He was not just another student. The life he lived was a facade, a paper-thin disguise over something dangerous and immense. He carried a heavy secret, one that could shatter his world and the worlds of everyone close to him if it ever came to light.

Was tonight the night the façade cracked? Had the quiet existence he’d fought for finally attracted the very gaze he’d been trying to evade? 

Sukuna pushed himself off the door, his movements stiff and cautious. He crossed the apartment swiftly, pausing at the window to peer out through the gap in the blinds, his eyes scanning the dimly lit street below. There was still no one there.

But the fear hadn't left. It was a cold, hard knot in his gut, a promise of a threat yet to materialize. He had to assume the answer was yes. Every moment of peace he enjoyed was borrowed time, and tonight, he’d just been given a very clear notice that his debt might be due.

Yoru let out a soft, inquiring meow from the kitchen. Sukuna closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling slowly before letting out a controlled breath.

"I know, I know," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. The fear was still there, but duty, routine, and a hungry cat demanded attention. He had to feed Yoru, and then he still had to leave for Shigure. The sheer, banal necessity of his schedule was the only thing pulling him forward.

He was still being watched, he was sure of it.

------------------

Shigure was always lively at this hour — its soft and glowing chaos only deepened as night fell. Tonight was no different.

Rain misted the streets of Tokyo, the sky still heavy and dark, drops sliding down the wide glass windows of the izakaya. Yet Shigure pulsed with warmth and sound. The door opened and closed again and again, letting in bursts of cool air and the smell of rain as customers stepped inside, shaking off umbrellas and hanging damp coats by the entrance.

From inside, the low hum of jazz spilled out onto the street — saxophone and piano weaving together in that familiar rhythm that seemed to draw people in from the drizzle. Laughter mingled with the clatter of chopsticks and glasses, the faint hiss of oil from the kitchen, and someone’s quiet conversation punctuated by a bark of sudden laughter.

When Sukuna arrived, he slipped in through the back door as he always did, shaking rain from his sleeves. The narrow corridor smelled faintly of miso, soy, and cigarette smoke — comforting in a way he’d never admit out loud.

Mr. Takahashi glanced up from the counter where he was organizing receipts—ready to prepare for some of the orders from the customers, giving Sukuna a brief nod of acknowledgement. Sukuna nodded back, the gesture small but respectful, before reaching for his apron hanging on the wall.

The moment he tied it around his waist, Mrs. Takahashi turned from the register and spotted him. Her face lit up instantly, the kind of genuine warmth that always made Sukuna awkward, “Oh, Sukuna-kun! You’re here early today,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. Sukuna tried to smile back — and though it was small, a little stiff, it was enough to make her chuckle softly.

Across the room, their youngest son, Kenji, was jotting down an order at the table near the exit, his pen scratching quickly against the small notepad. He looked up just long enough to wave before hurrying back to the kitchen with someone’s drink request.

The evening rhythm settled easily around Sukuna — plates clinking, steam rising from the kitchen, jazz humming low like a heartbeat. Mrs. Takahashi was standing behind the counter, her hands busy organizing bills and counting change when she suddenly looked up at Sukuna, “Where’s Gojo-kun today? He’s not with you?” she asked, glancing toward the door as if expecting the tall white-haired man to come strolling in any second with that careless grin of his.

Of course they’d ask about Satoru Gojo. Sukuna almost forgot that the man had somehow—against all logic—wormed his way into the Takahashis’ good graces.

It had only taken a week. One week of Satoru trailing him around like a persistent stray cat, showing up after classes, following him all day, during his shifts, even once when Sukuna was restocking shelves. And in that short time, Gojo had managed to charm his way into Shigure’s little world.

Even the famously stern Mr. Takahashi had softened toward him. The man who once barked at delivery drivers for being five minutes late now laughed at Gojo’s dumb jokes and let him pour drinks for customers “just this once.” And Mrs. Takahashi adored him—said he had “a kind smile,” which nearly made Sukuna choke.

Three days ago Gojo rolled up his sleeves and started helping in the kitchen—uninvited, of course—insisting he was “basically part of the staff now.” He’d carried trays, poured drinks, and even wiped tables while teasing Sukuna relentlessly. And somehow, no one had told him to leave.

Sukuna could still remember that first night vividly: the clang of pans, the heat of the kitchen, the moment he realized Gojo had followed him from campus all the way here. The rage had flared so fast he’d nearly grabbed the steel tray beside him and flung it at the man’s smug face.

But before he could, Gojo had casually turned to Mrs. Takahashi with that blinding grin and said, “Oh, I’m Sukuna’s friend!”—like it was the most natural thing in the world. And that was it. Somehow, the lie stuck. And now everyone here thought Satoru Gojo was Sukuna’s “friend.”

Sometimes, when Sukuna was stuck on late-night delivery runs, Gojo didn’t even leave. He’d stay.

The  second time it happened, Sukuna had come back from hauling ramen orders five blocks away from the Shigure, his shoes soaked from the rain, only to find Gojo behind the counter—wearing one of Shigure’s aprons. The sight nearly gave him an aneurysm.

Apparently, while Sukuna was out working, Gojo had decided to “help.” That meant charming drunk customers, carrying trays like he’d been doing it for years, and making small talk with Mrs. Takahashi as if he’d been part of the family for decades.

The bastard had even learned how to fold the take-out boxes properly—something Sukuna had spent weeks getting right.

At first, Sukuna thought for sure Gojo would screw something up. Drop a plate, say something offensive, get Sukuna fired. But no—of course not. Somehow, people liked him. His ridiculous grin, his dumb jokes, his easygoing attitude—they all melted under his presence.

So while Sukuna was out there weaving through traffic with steaming food on his back this week, Gojo was back here in the warmth of Shigure, pouring sake for customers and laughing along with Mr. Takahashi. Not that Sukuna cared. He'd ignored him since their argument in that classroom, this won't change anything.

That was probably how they’d grown close so fast.

The Takahashis didn’t know Gojo was a nuisance, a headache, a walking disaster waiting to happen. They just saw a friendly young man who was always smiling, always offering to help.

And maybe that was why, when Sukuna showed up tonight without him, Mrs. Takahashi’s tone carried that tiny hint of disappointment—like the evening felt quieter without Gojo’s chaos filling the room.

Sukuna, meanwhile, was trying not to imagine Gojo in that same stupid apron again. He didn’t need that image burned into his brain for the rest of his shift.

So when Mrs. Takahashi asked about him tonight, Sukuna just forced a neutral look and muttered, “He had something to do,” keeping his tone short, clipped—trying to sound casual, like a friend.

Because saying I don’t know or I don’t care would only make things weird. And the last thing Sukuna wanted was for anyone in Shigure to realize that Satoru Gojo was the absolute last person on earth he wanted to see.

Shigure was busy tonight—noisy, hot, and overflowing.

The faint drizzle outside had driven more people in than usual. The soft jazz playing from the old speakers barely cut through the chatter and clinking of glasses. The smell of grilled meat, soy broth, and sake filled the air thick enough to cling to Sukuna’s hoodie.

He’d barely been inside ten minutes before he was pulled in every direction.

“Sukuna, could you grab more sake bottles from the back?”
“Sukuna, take this order to table six!”
“Sukuna, the delivery’s ready—Kenji’s swamped!”

And just like that, Sukuna was everywhere at once—scribbling down orders with Kenji at the door, then ducking into the kitchen to help Mrs. Takahashi and her husband plate steaming bowls of ramen. The heat of the stoves blurred his vision; the clang of ladles and pans was constant. A few times, he jumped behind the counter to handle the register when Mrs. Takahashi got swamped, and later, he found himself running out into the rain with a plastic bag full of take-out boxes.

For once, the constant motion dulled his thoughts. The unease that had followed him since earlier that afternoon—someone’s stare burning against his back—faded beneath the noise and heat of Shigure.

He forgot, just for a while.

He didn’t notice the tall figure across the street, standing beneath the glowing sign of a closed tattoo and piercing shop. The man was dressed in black from head to toe, a hood pulled low and a mask covering the lower half of his face. His gaze never left Shigure’s entrance.

He just stood there, silent and still, waiting for the moment Sukuna would walk out into the rain again.

------------------

The rain hammered down by the time Shigure finally closed its doors. The last of the customers were gone, leaving behind the faint, cloying scent of sake and grilled fish.

Sukuna wiped down the final table, the damp rag dragging in slow, practiced circles across the worn wood. Kenji locked the front door, the bell above it giving one final, lonely chime before the sign was flipped to CLOSED. The soft jazz music faded completely, replaced only by the steady, overwhelming drum of the storm against the windows.

Back in the kitchen, Sukuna untied his apron, shaking off the faint traces of broth and smoke before hanging it on its hook. His grey hoodie was still cool and damp from the evening commute, but he pulled it on anyway, his mind set on getting out into the deluge. He didn’t get far.

A gentle hand, surprisingly firm, caught his arm. “My boy, you haven’t eaten yet, have you? Here…”

Mrs. Takahashi’s voice was warm and impossibly kind, and so was the rich scent wafting from the pot behind her. Sukuna didn’t need to look to know the menu—she’d made miso soup, grilled mackerel, and rice with pickled plum. It was the familiar, dangerous smell of an invitation he almost always managed to evade.

On his lucky nights, he slipped away from this forced proximity. Tonight, luck had clearly run out.

Outside, the storm was a relentless, cold barrier. Staying felt suddenly bearable. He hadn’t eaten since morning, and Mrs. Takahashi looked far too genuinely kind to refuse without causing offense. So, with a reluctant stiffness in his shoulders, Sukuna stayed.

Dinner was served at the small wooden table tucked deep in the kitchen—simple, homey, and heavy with unspoken history. Mr. Takahashi sat at the head, his wife beside him. Sukuna took the seat on his right, Kenji directly across. The two empty chairs at the end—usually reserved for the absent Haru and Hiro—made the space feel jarringly spacious.

The steam from the rice was a tangible, fragrant invitation. Mrs. Takahashi moved with silent, graceful efficiency, setting down bowls of soup and rice while Kenji fetched the worn set of chopsticks. The rich, savory aroma of simmered soy and ginger filled the small, overheated room, wrapping around Sukuna like a strange, unfamiliar blanket.

He sat rigidly, his hands hovering over the table, acutely aware of the rough grain of the wood. The Takahashis moved with quiet ease—passing dishes, pouring tea, sharing small, mundane bits of talk that flowed as naturally as breathing. Watching them stirred a sharp, aching unease in his chest. They were kind—a state Sukuna was fundamentally unused to, treating him like he belonged. They were warm—a warmth he had only ever observed, envious, from a distance. Sitting among their easy familiarity, he felt it more sharply than ever: he was an outsider, a complete stranger allowed into their intimate core.

He never understood why the Takahashis showed him such profound generosity. They kept him despite his unsettling appearance, didn't fire him even after he disappeared for a full week without warning, and still paid him above average—more than enough to cover his rent. Dinner after closing was just an extra, baffling kindness, one Sukuna usually went out of his way to avoid.

He was pulled from his self-conscious thoughts when Mrs. Takahashi leaned over with her usual gentle fussing, her touch brief but warm on his arm. “Eat more, Sukuna,” she said, placing a few more pieces of grilled fish into his half-empty bowl. “You’ve gotten too thin.”

Sukuna gave a low, wordless nod of thanks, scooping the fish and rice together. The flavor, the perfect balance of salty and savory, hit him harder than he expected. For a second, he almost choked on the sudden, powerful rush of heat in his chest—he couldn’t tell if the food was truly that good, or if it was the sheer, terrifying unfamiliarity of this feeling, this unexpected, soft affection that he'd never once found even within his own family. Maybe it was the sharp, humbling ache of realizing: this was the first time in years someone had cared enough to feed him.

The table was loaded now—sweet and sour pork glazed in sticky sauce, grilled mackerel, thick miso soup, and tiny bowls of pickled vegetables. Everything smelled like an idealized memory of warmth and home.

They were halfway through the meal when a voice abruptly broke the calm, cutting through the comfortable sound of tapping chopsticks and the drumming rain.

“So,” Kenji said, pointing his chopsticks directly at Sukuna, his eyes gleaming. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Sukuna froze, mid-chew. “I don’t have one.”

Kenji raised a cynical eyebrow. “Oh, really? What about the one who keeps following you around? The white-haired guy—looks like a walking, arrogant lamp post? Who was here this whole week?”

“He is not my boyfriend,” Sukuna ground out, the sudden annoyance grating his voice.

Kenji gasped dramatically, leaning forward with a wide, mocking smirk. “Oh, come on! You expect me to believe that? He follows you here! to work, helps you out, hangs around until your shift ends. That is boyfriend behavior, Sukuna. The possessive one. And If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.”

Sukuna narrowed his crimson eyes, fixing Kenji with an intense, murderous stare. He desperately wanted to snarl and snap back, but with Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi calmly eating as if this were the most normal, polite dinner conversation, he simply clenched his jaw until it ached.

“Don’t lie,” Kenji insisted, clearly thriving on the reaction. “Even if he’s not, you should make him your boyfriend. I approve.”

“Who the hell are you to ‘approve’ anything?” Sukuna snapped, the civility finally cracking. “And I’m not lying!” He stopped eating completely, glaring daggers at Kenji.

“Hey! Don’t look at me like that!” Kenji barked a laugh. “I’m older than you. That makes me qualified to give advice. Respect your elders.”

“Elder my ass,” Sukuna muttered under his breath. “You’re not my brother.”

A light, quick smack landed on his head. “Language! And what do you mean I'm not your brother? That’s rude! You’ve been working here for almost a year, and you still think I don’t see you as a little brother? Even Mom and Dad care about you more than they care about me!”

Sukuna rubbed the spot, grumbling beneath his breath, yet still polite enough not to escalate the argument. Kenji turned toward his parents, dramatically pointing an accusing chopstick at Sukuna.

“Excuse me? Mom? Dad? He doesn’t even acknowledge me! Us! This is unacceptable!”

Mrs. Takahashi sighed, a sound of gentle, practiced exasperation. “Enough, Kenji. Stop bothering Sukuna.” She smiled sweetly, turning to him. “Here, eat more, Sukuna—I know this one’s your favorite.” She picked up a few slices of the glazed pork and set them neatly into his bowl.

Kenji watched the whole exchange, his jaw dropping in genuine disbelief. “See?!” he yelled, pointing his chopsticks. “Even Mom gives you extra meat. And look at me! I have to serve myself like an unwanted guest.”

Kenji groaned dramatically, slumping back in his chair. “Unbelievable. This is favoritism!”

“Thank you,” Sukuna mumbled, bowing his head slightly before focusing back on his bowl, a faint warmth in his cheeks that wasn't entirely from the steam. He did his best to ignore Kenji’s theatrical grumbling.

“Oh, look at that,” Kenji said, feigning the deepest offense. “Now he’s ignoring me. Absolutely unbelievable!”

“Oh, hush,” Mrs. Takahashi said, waving him off, that familiar, knowing twinkle in her eye still present. “Young people fight all the time—it’s normal, especially for couples. I’m sure Sukuna just had a little argument. Gojo-kun will come around.”

Sukuna choked.

He coughed so hard he nearly dropped his chopsticks. Mr. Takahashi, who had been silently observing the entire time, simply slid his untouched glass of water toward him. Sukuna snatched it and took a long, desperate drink, still sputtering.

“Mrs. Takahashi,” he finally croaked, between breaths, “We are really not dating!”

Mrs. Takahashi clicked her tongue softly, setting her chopsticks down with a gentle clink. “Oh, Sukuna, please,” she said, her voice a mix of gentle impatience and profound, motherly warmth. “How many times do I have to tell you to just call me Okaa-san? No need for such formality, you’re practically family here.” She then waved a purely dismissive hand towards his sputtering denial, entirely unconcerned. “And don’t worry about Gojo-kun, dear. Every young man needs time to realize his true feelings. Just eat your food before it gets cold.”

That only made Kenji burst out laughing, almost falling off his chair. Even Mrs. Takahashi couldn't help but laugh at Sukuna’s beet-red, utterly flustered face. His cheeks burned—whether from nearly suffocating or sheer, crushing mortification, he couldn’t tell—but the whole family was clearly, thoroughly, and joyfully entertained.

Even Mr. Takahashi, usually so reserved and distant, smiled faintly as he watched the scene unfold—his wife laughing, his son doubled over, and Sukuna trying and failing to hide his profound embarrassment behind his bowl. It had been a long, quiet time since their dinner table had felt this alive.

And for just a moment, a fleeting and deeply comforting moment, it almost felt like they were all family.

------------------

Dinner was over, but the rain still hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had only grown heavier.

Outside, the sound of it was relentless—water rushing through gutters, drumming against the pavement, pooling in shallow puddles that shimmered under the streetlights. The faint scent of soy and smoke still lingered in the air, blending with the damp chill that seeped through the cracks of the old izakaya.

The Takahashis were getting ready to leave. Mr. Takahashi double-checked the back door lock while Kenji handed out umbrellas, one by one. Mrs. Takahashi turned off the lights behind the door, leaving only the soft golden glow from the paper lanterns near the entrance.

Sukuna lingered by the doorway, rolling his shoulders under his hoodie, watching the rain pour down the narrow street. The puddles near his feet rippled as drops fell, and he idly nudged at them with the toe of his shoe.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come home with us tonight, Sukuna?” Mrs. Takahashi called from the doorway, her voice barely rising over the sound of the rain. “You can head back in the morning when the rain has stopped.”

Sukuna looked up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head. “It’s all right, Mrs. Takahashi—I mean, ma’am. I’ve already troubled you enough. Besides, my apartment’s not that far.”

Mrs. Takahashi sighed softly, clearly unconvinced. She stepped closer and handed him an umbrella anyway—pale blue with small cherry blossoms printed along the edge.

“At least take this,” she said. “You’ll get sick walking in that rain.”

Sukuna accepted it reluctantly, his fingers brushing hers for a brief second. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Before Mrs. Takahashi could respond, Kenji blurted out, “Oh! So that’s why you’re in such a hurry—you’re being picked up by your boyfriend!" Kenji stood right beside him, elbowing Sukuna’s arm playfully while pointing toward the far end of the alley. "But wait—hold on, that’s not Satoru, is it? Hey, Sukuna! Are you seeing another guy now?! No wonder Satoru didn’t show up today! Kami-sama, you're a naughty naughty boy, Sukuna!”

Sukuna groaned under his breath, rolling his eyes, thinking Kenji was just being his usual annoying self. But when both Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi turned to look in the same direction, Sukuna reluctantly followed their gaze.

There was someone there. But not Gojo Satoru.

Even from this distance, Sukuna recognized the posture immediately—the rigid stance, the emotionless face staring back at him through the curtain of rain. That cold, unreadable presence was Uraume.

And the umbrella—black, with faint cat patterns along the edge—yeah, that was definitely his. Sukuna’s shoulders slumped in resignation. He let out a long sigh and turned back toward the Takahashis. “I’ll get going then. Thank you for today,” he said, bowing once, twice, three times. “I’ll be on time tomorrow—since Haru and Hiro still can’t help.”

Mrs. Takahashi smiled kindly. “All right, but hurry home. It’s getting late, and the rain’s getting worse.”

“Yeah, yeah, be careful, lover boy!” Kenji added with a grin, earning a light smack from his mother.

Sukuna ignored him entirely, pulling his hood up. He bowed once more before jogging into the rain, heading toward the motionless figure at the end of the street.

Behind him, the Takahashis walked the other way—three umbrellas bobbing under the storm—while Sukuna made his way through the puddles toward the person who had no business being here.

The rain hadn’t eased at all—if anything, it had thickened, falling in silver sheets under the dim glow of the streetlamps. Water gathered in the cracks of the pavement, rippling every time a drop hit. Most of the shops along the street had already closed, their metal shutters drawn down, leaving the faint hum of a vending machine and the slosh of passing cars as the only sounds that filled the air.

Sukuna walked quickly, his hood pulled up, shoes splashing through shallow puddles as he headed straight toward the lone figure standing at the edge of the alley.

When he stopped in front of Uraume, he noticed the uneasy look on his face. It wasn’t the usual stoic calm—he looked… tense, almost guilty. The sight made something twist uncomfortably in Sukuna’s chest.

“What are you doing here?” Sukuna asked flatly.

“I told you,” Uraume’s voice was low, barely audible over the rain. “There’s something I need to talk about. It’s important, Sukuna-sama.”

“Then talk,” Sukuna sighed. “We can do it while walking. Hurry! I wanna get home before I freeze to death.”

He started walking again, brushing past Uraume, his stride quick and impatient. Uraume followed close behind, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the downpour.

They walked for a while in silence, only the rhythm of rain between them. Sukuna finally glanced sideways. “So? What’s this all about?”

Uraume didn’t answer immediately. His face looked strained—like he was still trying to find the right words. The hesitation made Sukuna’s irritation give way to a faint unease.

“Uraume?”

Without warning, Uraume grabbed his sleeve, stopping him in place.

“Sukuna-sama,” he said, voice tight, “this is important.” his eyes darted around the dim street, sharp and cautious. “Please—just wait a moment.”

Sukuna frowned. The nervous way Uraume scanned the area made his own skin prickle. He exhaled slowly, glancing over his shoulder and following his gaze into the shadows pooling along the storefronts and alleyways.

The rain muffled everything, but still—there it was again. That same feeling he’d had earlier that afternoon. The faint, crawling weight of being watched.

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle by the time they reached the far end of the street, but the air still carried that wet, heavy chill that made everything feel muted. Sukuna’s hood dripped steadily, his breath faintly visible in the cold as he stopped beside Uraume. They’d walked far from Shigure—past the convenience store, past the vending machines—and now stood in front of a narrow, shadowed alley where Sukuna sometimes left food for stray cats.

The small bookstore at the corner was dark, its blinds drawn and sign flipped to closed. Across the street, the matcha café’s green awning dripped under the rain, its windows black. Only the pale orange glow from the nearest lamppost cut through the gloom, catching the glimmer of rainwater running down the pavement.

Sukuna glanced at Uraume. “So? What’s this all about?”

Uraume hesitated for a beat before finally speaking. His voice was calm, but tight—like someone choosing words too carefully. “There’s something I was supposed to tell you from the beginning, Sukuna-sama. But… I delayed it, because you weren’t in a good state back then. Now, we don’t have time to wait any longer. I’ve been told to tell you immediately.”

The phrasing made Sukuna’s stomach twist, “‘Told’? By who?” His tone sharpened. “And what do you mean, no time? What’s going on?” Sukuna looked around them, and continued, “Ok, can we just talk about this at home?”

Now Uraume looked around too, the edge of anxiety flickering in both their eyes. “We can’t talk at your apartment. It’s not safe.”

“Then where—”

“Here,” Uraume interrupted softly, reaching out to grab Sukuna’s wrist. Their grip was cold, insistent. “Please, just follow me.”

Before Sukuna could protest, Uraume pulled him into the alley. The narrow space was barely lit, the faint light from the street fading into shadow. Water dripped from the rusted gutter above, the sound echoing against the brick walls.

Sukuna’s muscles tensed. His hand brushed near his ankle, where he kept a small blade tucked in his shoe. His instincts screamed caution. Uraume never looked this uneasy—not even during their worst days.

After a few steps, Uraume stopped and turned to face him, releasing his arm. “There’s someone who wants to meet you,” they said quietly. “It’s about what I was supposed to tell you, Sukuna-sama. And it couldn’t be done anywhere else. It’s… too dangerous.”

Sukuna’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking abou—”

Then he saw it.

A movement—just behind Uraume. A figure stepped out from the darkness at the end of the alley, tall and unhurried. The faint light caught on his features: long dark hair tied in a loose knot at the back of his head, black raincoat, a sharp face framed by shadows, and that same soft, infuriating smile Sukuna could never forget.

The man lifted a hand in a lazy wave, as if greeting an old friend.

Sukuna froze. His pulse stopped for a beat. He knew that face. That voice. That smile.

The memories crashed in—pain, confinement, the sound of laughter echoing behind locked doors, the cold metallic smell of blood.

Kenjaku.

The man who stood as his grandmother’s right hand. The man who had broken him before he’d ever learned what freedom was. Now—he was standing here, smiling as if the years between them had never existed.

The moment Sukuna saw that smile—that smile—his body reacted before his mind did.

The umbrella in his hand flew like a blade, cutting through the rain and slamming right into Kenjaku’s face. It bought him maybe half a second, but that was all he needed.

In one swift motion, Sukuna reached down, ripped the small knife from the sheath hidden in his right shoe, and grabbed Uraume by the arm. Before Uraume could even gasp, Sukuna had spun him around—his left arm hooking tight around his neck, the edge of his forearm pressing just beneath Uraume’s jaw, trapping him against his chest.

Sukuna’s right hand—steady but trembling with fury—held the knife out in front of him, its blade flashing under the faint orange lamplight. Rain dripped from his hair, stinging his eyes. His breath came harsh, uneven, the panic he’d buried for years clawing its way back to the surface.

Kenjaku stood a few feet away, calm as ever, one hand still casually holding the umbrella Sukuna had thrown at him. The bastard didn’t even look angry—just amused, like watching Sukuna unravel was entertainment.

“Stay right there!” Sukuna barked. His voice cracked in the rain, raw with fear and rage. “Don’t take a step closer.”

He tightened his arm around Uraume’s neck. Uraume choked slightly, fingers brushing his wrist—not to struggle, but as if pleading for him to stop, “Sukuna-sama,” Uraume’s voice trembled, soft and uneven. “Please, it’s not what you think. I didn’t betray you. Let me explain—”

“Explain?” Sukuna’s voice was sharp, disbelieving. “You brought him here!”

The knife trembled as he swung it slightly toward Kenjaku, then back toward Uraume. The world around them was narrow—just the three of them in that alley, the walls slick with rain, the sound of water dripping off rooftops echoing in the silence. His thoughts spun wildly. He could barely see through the rain, but his eyes darted to the far end of the alley—the street beyond, the faint red glow of a traffic light. If I can just run—

He could make it. He had to. He wasn’t going back. Not again.

But Uraume’s voice cut through his panic, “Sukuna-sama, please. Listen to me. This isn’t what you think it is.”

“Shut up!” Sukuna’s shout cracked like thunder, his chest heaving. “Don’t you dare call me that. You—you were with them all along, weren’t you?”

His grip on the knife tightened, knuckles white. Rain rolled down his face, mixing with the salt sting of tears he didn’t even realize had fallen.

“You worked with him!” Sukuna hissed. “All this time, you worked with this bastard and—”

Kenjaku finally spoke, his tone light, almost playful through the rain. “My, my,” he said, brushing a wet strand of hair from his face, smiling unfazed, “Sukuna-kun,” he said gently, voice calm in a way that made Sukuna’s skin crawl. “We haven’t even properly said hello to each other. And you're calling me a bastard—ouch, that’s a little harsh, don’t you think? I just came here to talk.”

His tone was light, almost playful, but Sukuna knew better than anyone—nothing about this man was ever harmless. Every word he spoke was a trap. Every move was a slow, deliberate poison.

“Shut up!” Sukuna snapped, his voice cracking between his uneven breaths, “You think I’m that stupid?! You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Pushing me into corners like this again—your tricks never change!”

The rain was coming down harder now, blurring the world into streaks of gray. Uraume took the courage to touch Sukuna's arm on his neck, hand trembling as he raised it. “Sukuna-sama,” he said, voice tight. “He’s not Kenjaku. Please—listen to me. You have to trust me, just this once.”

Kenjaku laughed again, a quiet, venomous sound. “Yes, Sukuna-kun~ listen to your loyal bodyguard,” he said smoothly. “He’d even give his life for you, you know?”

“Shut up, you bastard!!” For the first time, Uraume shouted, the curse ripping out of them in frustration. “You’ve ruined everything, you fucking dumbass!”

Sukuna couldn’t hear them anymore. Not really. All that reached him now was the pounding of rain and the rush of blood in his ears. His breath hitched, the air growing thinner by the second. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t—

But the world was shrinking. Their voices sounded like they were underwater. Uraume’s lips were moving, their voices distant and warped. Kenjaku too, it looked like they're arguing. 

“I told you—let me talk to him first!” Uraume shouted through the rain. “You ruined my plan! Everything! Look where your recklessness got us!”

Kenjaku’s soft laughter answered, cold and cutting, “Your plan never worked, Uraume. I warned you a week ago—we already wasted too much time on this, a whole year for fuck's sake!! All I asked was tell him the truth! If not, I’d have to come and told him myself. And if necessary…” he stopped, eyes narrowing, “…I’ll take him to the headquarters.”

“You idiot!!” Uraume screamed. “Sukuna-sama, don’t listen to him! Please, listen to me! He’s not Kenjaku—this isn’t what you think! I was trying to—”

But Sukuna couldn’t hear it anymore. The rain was too loud. His heart was too fast. His entire body shook as he realized—he was losing control. The knife in his hand trembled violently. He squeezed it tighter until his knuckles turned white, desperate not to drop it.

That word hit Sukuna like a blade to the gut. He knew exactly what that meant—the Ryomen estate. The hell he’d run from. Where would they take him this time? Fukuoka? like the last time? or Nagasaki? Maybe Suzu—or maybe that godforsaken island, Sado? where the sea was so rough he couldn’t even hear his own screams. Or Ozu… god, not Ozu. Sukuna’s stomach twisted at the thought. His room there had no windows. Just four white walls that hummed with fluorescent light, bright enough to burn into his eyelids even when he closed them. His thoughts spun faster, tumbling over each other in a blur. Would they lock him up again? Drug him until his mind went quiet? Chain him to another bed with cold metal cuffs that smelled like blood and disinfectant? Force him—until he obeys and do his job—to torture people? To kill them? The price was always the same: his life or someone else's life. He couldn't go back to that—his own survival depended on turning his hands into weapons against the innocent. That choice, imposed by the clan's sick demands, just because he is The Heir—No. No, he couldn’t go back. Not there. Not anywhere. His pulse raced in his throat, uneven and shallow. His hands twitching like they were ready to fight.

Anywhere but back there.

Sukuna's mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, plotting his escape. But Uraume was stronger, more skilled. Kenjaku was taller, faster—if they caught him, it was over. He had to run. 

Now. 

Before it was too late.

He had to run. 

He had to run. 

He had to.

He had to. 

He had to.

Please.

Please.

He had to run.

Run. Run. Run.

Run. Run. Run.

Run. Run. Run.

He had to

Run.

Run.

Run.

Run.

Run.

Uraume knew Sukuna was spiraling, he used the split second of Sukuna’s panic to slip free from his grip. He moved quickly to Kenjaku’s side and lifted both hands just as he had done, a mirror of surrender.

He was saying something, His lips moving fast, but Sukuna couldn’t make out a single word. Everything sounded distant, warped, like he was underwater. All he could do was swing the knife wildly between them—Uraume, and that man, back again, just to keep them from getting closer. Neither of them moved to attack. That somehow made it worse.

Kenjaku—spoke too, voice low, steady, impossible to hear over the pounding in Sukuna’s ears. They were both talking, pleading maybe, but Sukuna’s mind refused to focus. He was too busy searching for a way out.

If he ran to the right, he could reach the Takahashi house—maybe they’d help him—but no, that was insane. He couldn’t drag them into this. And If he ran to the left, that would take him toward his apartment. Absolutely not. They’d find him there, trap him there.

So where could he go?

His thoughts spiraled, his breathing hitched, his hand shook as he waved the knife again—anything to keep them away. Then, suddenly—Kenjaku lunged forward, grabbed Sukuna’s wrist, twisted it sharply behind his back. The knife clattered to the wet pavement. Sukuna gasped, struggling, but the man was stronger. Too strong. He was forced down into the mud, cold and slick against his cheek. He could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and feel it drip from his nose.

Somewhere behind him, Uraume’s voice cut through the storm— “Stop! Fuck! You can’t do this! This wasn’t the plan! Don’t do this—he’s having a panic—” 

But it was like his words were coming from the other end of a tunnel. Sukuna struggled to get up. The rain roared louder, his pulse louder still. He jerked away, chest heaving, eyes wild. He thrashed, mud splattering across his face as he tried to wrench free from Kenjaku’s grip. The rain had turned the alley into a river of cold water, soaking through his clothes, gluing his hair to his forehead. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything—the rain, Uraume’s voice, the sound of his own gasping breaths.

“Let go of me—let me go!” His voice cracked, hoarse, barely louder than the storm. He kicked backward, feets scraping against the wet pavement, but the man’s hold only tightened. The pain shot up his twisted arm, white-hot, and now his knife slipped completely from his grasp, somewhere he couldn’t reach. Sukuna tried to move—but his body wouldn’t obey. His lungs felt too small, the air too thick. Every inhale came in short, desperate bursts. He could hear Uraume shouting something, his voice breaking with panic, but it all blurred together, like distant echoes underwater.

“Don’t touch me!” he choked out, his voice trembling with fear and fury. He jerked violently, his head hitting the wet pavement. The shock sent another wave of dizziness through him.

The world narrowed—rain, breath, heartbeat, fear. The sound of his name—“Sukuna-sama!”—cut through the chaos for a split second, before vanishing again beneath the pounding storm.

He didn’t know how long he struggled—seconds or minutes—but then, just as suddenly as the attack had started, the pressure on his body was gone. The pressure on his back was gone. His arm dropped uselessly to his side, and he crawled forward, catching himself in the water with shaking hands.

His chest burned. His throat ached. His vision swam. All he could do was gasp and crawl like a trapped animal fighting for one last chance to run.

Once he finally freed from Kenjaku's grip, Sukuna scrambled to his knees, blinking through the curtain of rain as he searched frantically for his knife. It gleamed faintly at the far end of the alley—half-submerged in a puddle by the wall between Uraume and Kenjaku’s feet. 

Too far. And between him and that knife stood Uraume and Kenjaku, locked in a violent struggle. Uraume had twisted the man’s arm, forcing him halfway to the ground. “Let him go!” he shouted over the rain, his voice raw with fury. The man only hissed in pain, snarling something Sukuna couldn’t catch. For a heartbeat, Sukuna just stared. Why the hell were they fighting each other?

He didn’t have time to think about it. This was his chance.

Without hesitation, Sukuna turned and bolted—out of the alley, around the corner, into the slick, empty streets of Tokyo.

The rain hit harder, cold needles against his skin. His hood was gone, his hair plastered to his forehead, the city lights bleeding into blurred streaks through the water in his eyes. His breaths came out in sharp, broken gasps—each one heavier than the last. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care.

His legs burned. His lungs screamed. The world tilted and shuddered around him. Keep running. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

He can’t stop.

He slipped, fell hard on the wet pavement—pain shot up his knee—but he forced himself up again. His palms stung, blood mixing with the rain. He stumbled into a passerby who shouted something, but Sukuna didn’t stop long enough to hear it.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

The pounding in his chest drowned out everything else. His vision was dimming at the edges now, dark spots flickering like static. His breath came ragged and shallow, his heartbeat a frantic drum in his ears.

Am I going to die? he thought wildly. Is this how it ends? Caught again, dragged back, locked away—

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

His stomach lurched. He could taste metal. But he kept running. Even when his body screamed to stop. Even when he could barely see the street in front of him.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

He didn’t care where his feet took him. He just had to get away. From Uraume. From Kenjaku. From everything.

Don’t stop. Keep running. Don’t stop.

Rain and fear blurred into one endless motion— run.

------------------

Sukuna didn’t know how far he had run—blocks, maybe miles—but his body was starting to give out. His breath came in ragged, wheezing bursts, every inhale scraping his throat raw. The soles of his shoes slapped against the wet pavement slower now, heavier. Behind him, he could hear footsteps—distant at first, but growing clearer, faster.

He didn’t dare look back. He didn’t want to see who it was. Uraume? Kenjaku? Someone else they’d sent after him? It didn’t matter. If they caught him now, it was over.

Rain blinded him; every breath burned. His muscles screamed for rest, but the moment he even thought about stopping, panic hit him like lightning. His body moved on sheer terror—run, run, run.

But terror wasn’t enough.

His leg buckled, and the world spun. Sukuna hit the ground hard, skidding across the slick pavement until his body stopped face-down on gravel and mud. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. For a second, he just lay there, chest heaving, rain pelting his back like shards of glass.

Get up. He tried to push himself up—his arms shook violently, his palms slipping against the wet ground. His vision pulsed, black spots dancing across his eyes.

Get up, dammit, get up!

He could hear them now—footsteps slapping against puddles, closing in. The echo of a voice—low, muffled by rain. He didn’t know what they were saying. Didn’t care.

Sukuna forced one knee under him, but his limbs refused to move the way he wanted. His body felt detached, heavy, useless. The cold had sunk deep into his bones.

He gasped, chest heaving, his breath catching on a sob he didn’t even notice. Please… not again. No no no no…

Please.

Please.

The rain poured harder, drowning the sound of everything else—his heartbeat, his thoughts, the footsteps growing louder behind him. Sukuna clawed at the ground, trying one last time to lift himself, but his body simply wouldn’t listen.

And then—he heard it. The sound of someone stopping just behind him. Too close.

Sukuna’s lungs burned as he struggled to move, palms slipping on the wet asphalt. His head spun, rainwater dripping into his eyes and blurring everything into streaks of light and shadow. He searched frantically for anything—a stick, a rock, something he could use to fight. But there was nothing. Just the empty street, the glint of puddles, and rows of parked cars glistening under the dim yellow streetlights.

Was this it?
Was he really going to end up caught again?

Footsteps approached—slow, uneven, but closing in fast. Sukuna froze, chest heaving. His pulse roared in his ears. He could feel someone stop beside him, so close he could hear their breathing through the rain.

“Hey! S’kuna!”

The voice barely registered before instinct took over. Sukuna lurched up, swinging wildly, his body trembling with adrenaline. But he had nothing left. His arm was caught easily—gripped tight by someone’s hand.

“Hey! Hey—it's me! Stop!”

Sukuna trashed, refusing to listen, his body running in pure panic. He twisted, kicked, shoved—but the person held on. Both of them slipped, falling into the cold puddle. Sukuna landed hard, still gasping for breath, still fighting.

“Stop—Hey! Stop—” The voice was louder now, closer, strained. Hands grabbed his wrists—not rough, not violent—steady.

And then fingers touched his face, tilting his chin up toward the faint light from a nearby streetlamp. The stranger’s hands were trembling, rain-slick, desperate.

“Sukuna, hey—hey, look at me! It’s me!”

The words cut through the static in Sukuna’s head. His breath hitched. That voice—familiar, too familiar.

Rain hammered down harder, running down Sukuna’s face and into his eyes until everything stung. His pulse thudded in his throat, his breath breaking apart in short, shallow bursts. He could barely see anything—just a blur of white hair and movement in front of him.

“God, Sukuna! What the hell happened to you?!”

The voice came out sharp with panic, too worry, too care to belong to the monsters Sukuna thought were after him. Still, he flinched, his body jerking when a hand reached toward his face. He blinked rapidly, trying to wipe the water from his eyes—but his hands were covered in grit, and all he managed to do was scrape sand into them. The sting made him wince.

“Hey—don’t! Stop that! You’ll hurt yourself!” the voice came again, closer now. “What the hell—are you okay? Sukuna, look at me—”

The figure grabbed his shoulders and shook him lightly, and that’s when Sukuna heard it— “It’s me! Satoru!”

Satoru?

The name cracked through the fog in Sukuna’s head like thunder. Of course—it was him. The familiar scent of cologne, the wet strands of white hair clinging to his forehead, the piercing blue eyes that somehow still managed to look annoyingly bright even in the rain.

But why was Satoru here?

Why did he find Sukuna now—like this?

Was he part of Uraume’s “plan”?

Did he follow them here to take Sukuna back to that place? Did he work with the Ryoumen to catch him?

Sukuna tried to speak, but his jaw barely moved. His lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves. His entire body was trembling, his fingers numb. He tried to pull away, weakly shoving at Satoru’s chest, but it was like his arms didn’t belong to him anymore. Panic flooded his system all over again, worse this time—his mind screamed trap, trap, trap.

He had to run.

Run.

Run.

Run.

“Sukuna, hey! Breathe,” Satoru said, voice cutting through the storm. “Come on, with me—look at me. In… and out… in… and out…”

Satoru caught Sukuna’s wrists mid-struggle, guiding one trembling hand to his own chest. His heartbeat thumped hard under Sukuna’s palm—steady, warm, real.

“See? Like this,” Satoru murmured. “In, out. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Sukuna didn’t know what to believe anymore—whether Satoru Gojo was an enemy, or just some idiot who had shown up at the wrong place at the wrong time. But as he stared at him through the rain—Satoru’s drenched hair, his soaked shirt clinging to his skin, the raw worry in his expression—his hands was gentle, trying not to hurt Sukuna, making sure Sukuna wasn’t hurt—something no one from the Ryoumen clan had ever done.

This man wasn’t here to hurt him. Was he?

He was here to save him. Wasn’t he?

Sukuna tried to catch his breath, lungs burning like they were filled with smoke. His whole body trembled, skin cold under the rain. He barely heard Satoru’s voice through the ringing in his ears—just fragments of sound breaking through the noise.

“Hey! Sukuna, can you hear me?” Satoru’s hands were on his shoulders, warm despite the rain. Sukuna flinched hard, jerking away, his body still in fight-or-flight.

He wanted to push him away, to assume the worst like he always did. Because trusting people had never ended well for him. Trust had teeth. It always came with pain. But his body betrayed him—the way his fingers clung weakly to Satoru’s sleeve, the way he leaned closer without meaning to, seeking warmth, safety, something.

Maybe Gojo was lying. Maybe this was another trap. But right now, Sukuna didn’t care. He was cold, bleeding, exhausted. If this was another mistake, he’d deal with it later. For now, he let himself believe. Just this once.

“Hide me,” Sukuna rasped out, voice cracking. “Please, Satoru… hide me.”

Satoru blinked, startled. “Hide you? What happened—”

“Please.” Sukuna’s breath hitched, almost a sob. “They’re after me. Just…hide me. Take me away. Please.”

“Okay, okay,” Satoru said quickly, tone shifting from alarm to steady calm. “I’ll hide you, but you have to breathe, alright? You’re gonna pass out if you keep this up. Breathe for me. In—and out. Slowly.”

He guided Sukuna’s shaking hand to his own chest, pressing it there. “Feel that? Follow it. In… out. Come on.”

Sukuna’s body fought him at first, every inhale short and shallow. His chest hurt. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling. The rain ran into his mouth, cold and bitter. But Satoru didn’t let go. His voice stayed right there, a low steady line cutting through the panic. “That’s it. You’re doing good. Just breathe. You’re safe now, okay? You’re safe.”

Satoru’s palm stayed firm against his back, guiding the rhythm of his breathing until the tremors dulled. Rain pooled around them, soaking their clothes, plastering Sukuna’s hair to his forehead.

“I’ll get you somewhere safe,” Satoru said finally, quieter now, almost to himself. “Just stay with me, okay?”

Sukuna didn’t answer. His eyes were unfocused, but when Satoru pulled him closer—steadying him, holding him upright—he didn’t resist.

Sukuna nodded weakly, his fingers trembling as they gripped the hem of Satoru’s shirt—small, desperate, like a silent yes. He could hear him. He would listen.

“Good…” Satoru exhaled, his voice low but steady, forcing calm into the chaos. He took both of Sukuna’s hands into his own, gripping them tightly. “Now, listen to me. You have to breathe, okay? In and out. Slowly. Once you can stand, we’re going to walk to the end of the street—my car’s parked there. Then we’ll get out of here. I’ll hide you. No one’s going to find you. I promise.” He reached up, brushing the wet hair and grime off Sukuna’s face with his thumb, wiping at the water—and blood and maybe tears. “You hear me?” Satoru murmured. “Everything's gonna be alright.”

Sukuna nodded again. Satoru’s hands were cold, trembling slightly from the rain, but to Sukuna, they felt grounding. He tried to match his breathing to Satoru’s chest, watching how it rose and fell, steady, controlled. If he just focused on that, maybe he could stay present. Maybe he could breathe again and leave.

Five minutes passed. The rain didn’t stop. Sukuna’s breathing didn’t steady. His lips were pale, his pulse erratic. Satoru’s heart raced with panic. He looked around—the empty street, the narrow alleys, the dim glow of streetlamps swallowed by the downpour. Whoever was after Sukuna could show up any second.

He didn’t have time.

“Alright,” Satoru whispered to himself, voice barely audible through the rain. Then louder, to Sukuna: “Hold on to me, okay?”

Before Sukuna could protest, Satoru slipped his arms under him and lifted him off the ground. Sukuna made a startled sound—half gasp, half protest—but didn’t struggle. His body sagged against Satoru’s chest, too weak to resist. Satoru tightened his hold, the rain streaming down his face as he started toward the car. “I’ve got you,” he muttered under his breath, almost like a prayer. “You’re safe now, Sukuna. I’ve got you.”

Sukuna’s fingers were still curled around the hem of Satoru’s shirt, eyes closed, finally let the unconsciousness take him. Satoru moved slowly, careful not to jostle him, murmuring the breathing pattern again and again like a metronome hoping Sukuna could follow. The rain hammered on their shoulders; the streetlight threw puddles into shimmering slices as they went.

They were only halfway to Satoru’s black BMW—parked where he said he left it at the end of the block—when a figure materialized up ahead, breath fogging in the cold air. At first Satoru braced for another stranger; then he recognized the stiff, unreadable posture. 

Uraume. That man was standing still near Satoru’s car. He didn’t make a move—not trying to stop or fight Satoru. When Uraume didn’t make a move, Satoru stepped forward, lengthened his stride, and reached the car in two long, quick moves. Uraume was left behind, standing still and watching Satoru carried Sukuna to his car. 

Satoru opened the front passenger door and eased Sukuna into the seat, buckling the belt and tilting the chair back to a more comfortable angle. Then, riffling through the back seat for something to warm him with, Satoru found his white hoodie—at least it's clean, a little dusty from yesterday’s laundry that never made it into the wash. He grabbed it and draped it over Sukuna, tucking the hood gently around his shoulders so the cold wouldn’t bite.

Satoru reached for the door handle, ready to circle around to the driver’s seat—but then he felt a faint tug at his shirt.

He froze, looking down. Sukuna’s fingers were still clenched around the fabric, knuckles pale and trembling, refusing to let go even in his half-conscious state. For a moment, Satoru just stood there, he watched him—rain beading off the fabric, Sukuna’s chest rising and falling more slowly now. And he finally got a proper look—Sukuna was drenched—rainwater clinging to his hair, streaming down his jaw, soaking through every layer of clothing. The fabric at his knees was torn open, exposing a raw scrape that was still bleeding. Both his hands were just as bad, covered in shallow cuts and grime, trembling even in unconsciousness. His eyes were swollen, lashes heavy and clumped together, and his lips had gone pale, almost bluish from the cold. There was a thin gash across his upper cheek, and a deeper one at his temple where blood had already begun to dry in dark streaks down his face.

Carefully, he pried Sukuna’s hand free, cover it under his white hoodie before stepping back and closing the door. The rain hadn’t let up—it only came down harder now, slicking Satoru’s hair against his forehead as he turned back toward the street, went to the other side of his car.

"Where will you take him?" Uraume was still there. Standing a few meters away, drenched to the bone, his pale hair plastered to his face. He hadn’t moved since Satoru carried Sukuna to the car.

Satoru’s gaze went ice-cold. “I don’t know what you did and I don't know what the fuck is happening to him, but it seems like you didn't do your job properly, uh? Bodyguard my ass." Satoru’s jaw clenched, "And I swear—if I ever see you near him again, I’ll kill you. If either of you Ryoumen bastards come near him, I’ll show you what Satoru Gojo can do.” The threat landed heavily; Uraume said nothing in reply, he knew better than anyone what a threat from a Gojo meant.

And Satoru didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel, sliding into the driver’s seat, Satoru turned the key and the car humming to life. He cranked the heater to its highest setting, warm air rushing through the vents. His eyes flicked toward Sukuna, Satoru stayed still for a long moment, just staring at Sukuna. The steady hum of the car and the rain against the windshield filled the silence, but it didn’t drown out the guilt tightening in his chest. He didn’t even understand why, but—What if this was his fault?

What if all his teasing, his constant showing up, his presence had pushed Sukuna too far?

What if he was the one who caused this? the reason who dragged Sukuna into this?

Satoru’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, jaw tight—God, this is my fault. I kept drawing too much attention to him. My stupid moves get him exposed to his clan. And I haven't fixed a single thing between us. But now... now I've just made everything harder for him.

“Fuck…” he whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain hammering the roof.

------------------

Chapter Text

---------------------------

The morning light slipped weakly through the thin curtains, painting soft, uneven lines across Yuuji’s room.

He hadn’t really slept. His body might’ve laid down for a few hours, but his mind never stopped running — turning over every word his mother told him in her letter, every memory from those past few years with his family, every truth that he just got in the last few days.

He sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together so tight his knuckles turned white.

The room felt heavy and silent, except for the distant hum of his AC. His eyes were fixed on the desk in front of him —there, stacked neatly, were Sukuna’s old cassette tapes, Sukuna’s favorite Walkman, the black one with the scratched surface — the ones he used everyday, even at school. And next to it is the bottle of truth. A small glass bottle filled with tightly folded slips of his mother’s letters. Letters that had destroyed everything he thought he knew.

Yuuji stared at it for a long time. His throat burned, and his chest ached in that slow, dull way that no crying could fix. He wanted to hate her, hate how selfish she was but he couldn’t. Not when he realized how much his mother had suffered, how much had been taken from her.

His chest ached with the weight of it — anger, confusion, grief, all tangled into one unbearable knot. He dragged a hand down his face and sighed. His reflection on the dark TV screen looked foreign. His eyes sunken, shoulders slumped. He didn’t even have the energy to cry anymore. His eyes were swollen, his head pounding. 

Yuuji felt useless. Completely, utterly useless. Why did it seem like he could never do anything right? Why was it so hard for him to understand people around him — the people he loved? His mother. Sukuna. Even Megumi. He’d managed to screw up every single one of them.

When he came home from Sendai yesterday, Ijichi had been waiting in the living room. The man didn’t say anything. He just lowered his head slightly when Yuuji walked past him toward his room. That silence said enough.

And then Choso had gone home soon after, leaving Yuuji with a quiet promise to call the next day. Yuuji hadn’t even responded properly. He should’ve, Choso had helped him so much. But yesterday, all he wanted to do was to sleep. To shut down. To disappear for a few hours and not think about anything — about Sukuna, about the letters, about the truth he wasn’t ready to face.

So, that’s what he did. He tried to sleep it off. Forget about every single word his mother told him. But he’d barely managed to get his eyes closed after that, staring at the ceiling, mind racing with one endless question: Should I tell Sukuna about the letter? Should he even know?

And while he was grappling with his own thoughts, he heard the sound of his bedroom door slamming open. Megumi stood there, his face tense, eyes red like he’d been holding back tears.

Behind him, Ijichi lingered awkwardly for a second, rubbing the back of his neck before murmuring, “I’m sorry, Yuuji. I promised I’d tell Megumi when you came home.”

Yuuji didn’t answer. He didn’t have the energy to be angry, not at Ijichi, not at anyone. He just nodded and waited until Ijichi took the hint and quietly closed the door behind him, leaving them alone.

Megumi’s voice broke the quiet almost immediately, “Where the hell were you?” His tone trembled somewhere between worry and fury. 

“You disappeared for almost a week, Yuuji. No texts, no calls. Do you have any idea how— how worried I was? You could’ve told me! You could’ve told Ijichi at least!”

Yuuji dragged a slow breath through his nose, pushing himself upright from the bed. His movements were heavy, sluggish, like even breathing took effort.

He looked at Megumi — really looked at him — at the hurt tightening his expression, the frustration barely masking fear, “Can we not do this now, Meg?” Yuuji’s voice came out low, hoarse. He rubbed his temple and looked away, “Please. Not right now.”

Megumi’s voice cracked, echoing through the quiet house, “What do you mean not right now? Are you seriously suggesting we not talk about this?” He swallows hard, “And what? You want me to—to just forget about it? About how you left me clueless here while you’re gone? About how you ignored me for a whole week like I’m nothing? Are you joking?!” Megumi said it in a single breath, panting as if all his emotions were piled up in his chest, ready to burst out.

“Yuuji! You left! Gone! For a week!— And I, as your boyfriend, didn't even know where you went! You know how much I hate this, Yuuji, you know that!! And you still pull a stunt like this to me?! And now you're telling me not to talk about this? How dare you!!” He took a shaky breath, fists clenched at his sides, stepping closer until he stood just a couple of feet away from Yuuji. His voice wavered, anger bleeding into hurt, “Don’t you think I deserve to know?”

Yuuji didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

He just sat there, shoulders slumped, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between them. Every word Megumi threw hit him like a punch, because Yuuji knew. He knew Megumi had every right to be angry. If anyone understood how easily Megumi worried, how he carried love and fear in the same breath — it was Yuuji. And still, he’d left without saying a word.

He wanted to speak, to explain but everything inside him was too heavy, too tangled. His throat felt tight, his chest hollow. Right now, he wasn’t sure if he could even trust his voice not to break.

He just needed time. Time to process. To breathe. But how could he ask for that without hurting Megumi even more?

“Is this about Sukuna? Again?” 

Oh, yeah, that. Megumi just hit a nerve. How Yuuji hated that tone. How Megumi said it like caring about Sukuna was wrong — like Sukuna didn’t deserve his time, his worry, his love.

Yuuji was exhausted, his mind a mess — it didn’t take much to set him off, “Seriously, Meg? I told you please not now. And what is this? Are you jealous? Of Sukuna? My brother?” Yuuji let out a small, bitter laugh, the one that didn’t sound like him, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Don’t you put words into my mouth, Yuuji,” Megumi’s voice trembled. But then softer, “It’s true tho, it’s always Sukuna, isn’t it? You always act like this when it’s about him.”

“Because he’s my fucking brother, Meg!“, Yuuji’s voice broke —loud. He shot up from the bed, standing face-to-face with his boyfriend. Megumi flinched. Tears were already pooling in his eyes.

The realization struck Yuuji all at once, and guilt settled heavy and sharp in his chest. He shouldn’t have yelled—he knew Megumi hated being shouted at. He knew that. And yet he still raised his voice. Just like he disappeared for days without a word. Just like the way Megumi’s mother left and never came back. Just like how Fushiguro-san told Megumi to stay quiet and swallow it all. And now Yuuji had repeated the same pattern.

He understood all of Megumi’s wounds and still, he hurt him anyway.

“And I’m your boyfriend, Yuuji. But it seems like it doesn't mean anything to you? Right?” Megumi’s tears finally fell. He wiped them away quickly with the sleeve of his sweater, refusing to cry. Yuuji stepped forward hesitantly, wanting to pull him close, to apologize, to make this right somehow.

But Megumi stepped back just as quickly.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Yuuji’s voice cracked, tired, pleading, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything. I’m sorry I ignored you and got too caught up with Sukuna. I’m sorry for leaving you out of it and for yelling just now. But can you just..” he took a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair, “..can you just give me some time, Meg? Please? I’m still trying to figure out what the hell’s even happening in my life. There are things I can’t even explain to myself yet, let alone to you. I just— I can’t handle my family falling apart and then fight with my boyfriend on top of it. Please… just a little time?”

If earlier Megumi only shed a single tear, now they came pouring down fast and messy. He tried to wipe them away with trembling hands, his voice breaking apart, “Is this it then? Are you… Are you breaking up with me?”

Yuuji’s heart dropped. He quickly stepped closer, shaking his head, “No! Oh God, No! Why would you think that? I’m not breaking up with you. I just— I just need time. That’s all..”

Megumi’s lips trembled, “How long?”

“I don’t know.”

The silence that followed felt endless, “At least until I fix things with Sukuna?” The air was thick, heavy with all the things neither of them could say.

Megumi sniffled, looking down, voice barely above a whisper,  “…Okay then. Let’s just take a break.”

“W—what?” Yuuji’s voice came out small, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Megumi’s voice trembled, but his eyes didn’t leave Yuuji’s. 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Yuuji. You need time, right? To deal with whatever the hell is going on with Sukuna? Fine. Take it. I’ll give you that time.”

Yuuji let out a small, bitter laugh, “Wait…you’re breaking up with me?” That sounded more like pain than amusement. Then another, louder one followed, “Oh, I see. So it’s actually you who wants to break up, huh?” His smile twisted, sharp and wet with the tears he tried to hold back.

“No, Yuuji, that’s not—” But Yuuji cut him off, voice breaking into a shout, “Alright! Let’s fucking break up!” He laughed again, so loud and hysterical, “That’s what you really want, right? You don’t have to pretend you’re doing this for me, you know.” Yuuji let another broken laugh, “Fuck!” He started to walk back and forth in his room like a madman.

Megumi flinched, his own tears spilling freely now.

Yuuji let out a rough, frustrated sound and buried both hands in his hair, gripping it so tightly his scalp burned. He yanked at it once, twice — anything to drown out the noise in his head. His breath hitched, uneven, “Fuck—Fuck!” he hissed under his breath, pacing a step before freezing again in front of Megumi.

He tilted his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw tight as if holding something in place. The light above him blurred, too bright, too white and his vision wavered. He blinked hard, trying to force the tears back where they came from. His throat burned, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile, “This is just perfect, you know...”, Yuuji smirks, “I don’t have time for a selfish boyfriend anyway…” Yuuji’s words came out ragged, shaking, “Sure. Let's break up. This is just fucking great.” He kept repeating it, letting out a broken laugh. His hair a mess, eyes red, hands still trembling, trying to convince himself he wasn’t about to break. “Go then.... Leave me the hell alone! Get out of here!” Yuuji's fists clenched at his sides, his whole body trembling — not sure if it was from rage or heartbreak. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, and Megumi couldn’t look away. 

Megumi’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His throat burned. He wanted to scream, to say no, that’s not what I meant, but the words just wouldn’t come. All he could do was stand there, looking at the boy he loves so much, “You know what? Fuck you, Yuuji. Fuck you!” Megumi’s voice cracked, but the words hit like a knife anyway. He turned on his heel, storming toward the door.

“Yeah yeah, I heard you!” Yuuji shouted after him, his own voice raw, “You’re right, I’m fucked, Meg! Fuck me! Fuck my family for doing shit behind my back! Fuck your parents for making you think that everyone’s gonna leave you! Fuck all of this! Fuck all of you! And fuck you too!!”

Yuuji's breath hitched, his ragged gasps the only sound as his frighteningly red eyes bore into Megumi. It was a terrifying spectacle—the sudden, explosive release of every pent-up emotion he'd been struggling to contain over the last few days, with Megumi caught squarely in the blast radius, an unwilling and easy target.

Megumi froze for a split second, hand gripping the doorknob so hard his knuckles went white. Then, slowly, he turned back — his eyes glassy and full of fire, “You know Yuuji, me too...” he said, his tone eerily calm now, the kind of calm that comes only when you’ve given up, “I don’t need a selfish boyfriend with a brother complex anyway. Go fix your problem with your fucking brother and leave me out of it.” He slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.

Yuuji stood there for a long time after the door slammed shut, staring blankly at the spot where Megumi had just been. He dragged a shaky hand down his face, muttering a small, broken laugh.

—“Fuck!”

Yuuji's voice echoed in the empty room, snapping him out of the memory. His hand dragged through his hair, his pulse still racing like it had just happened.

Now he wasn’t just trying to fix whatever was left of his relationship with Sukuna, he also had to deal with the fact that he’d just lost Megumi too. The love of his life, the one person who’d stood by him when everything started to fall apart.

Yuuji let out a shaky laugh that died halfway through, “Great,” he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking screwed.”

Yuuji dragged himself up from the bed, every joint in his body aching as if he hadn’t slept in days — which, technically, he hadn’t. He shuffled toward his desk, where the chaos still sat untouched: Sukuna’s old cassette tapes stacked unevenly beside his favorite black Walkman, and the glass bottle that held their mother’s letter. The sight alone made his stomach twist.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He really had to go — his phone had been vibrating nonstop, lighting up with messages from class group chats and the student committee. A week of silence had turned him into a ghost, and apparently, everyone had noticed.

“Guess I’ll deal with that later…” he muttered under his breath, reaching out to adjust the Walkman. The thing felt heavier now, like it was holding secrets he still hadn’t earned the right to know. Maybe he’d buy a new headset cable for it today— it’d be stupid if Sukuna had left another message hidden in one of those tapes and Yuuji missed it just because he didn’t bother to listen.

The thought made his chest tighten again. Sukuna, his mother, the letter… everything was a tangled mess that kept looping in his head, refusing to stop.

He stumbled into the bathroom, moving like a zombie — toothbrush hanging from his mouth, water running, mind completely elsewhere. He didn’t even remember whether he’d washed his hair or just stood under the shower for ten minutes. His reflection in the mirror looked awful: puffy eyes, dull skin, exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.

He dressed mechanically, tossing on a hoodie and jeans, barely caring that his shirt was wrinkled. The whole time, his brain wouldn’t stop spinning.

How was he supposed to talk to Sukuna today? Would Sukuna even listen? He was so damn stubborn — even worse than Yuuji himself.

And Megumi. God, Megumi. He’d have to apologize somehow, but what could he even say? “Sorry for being a mess”?

On top of that, there was still the Ryoumen clan, the political nightmare he barely understood. He needed to talk to Ijichi again and figure out what this whole clan thing was about.

Yuuji grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door, exhaling a shaky breath.

One problem at a time, he told himself. Today, he had to meet Sukuna, talk to him, really talk to him and hope that his brother would still hear him out.

---------------------------

The sun was out high when Yuuji finally pulled into campus, his black Audi rolling to a stop beneath the familiar cherry blossom tree near the south gate—right by the path that led to the cafeteria. The branches swayed gently in the wind, scattering a few leaves over his windshield. He sat there for a moment, engine still humming, fingers gripping the steering wheel.

He inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out slowly. Okay. You can do this. He had to. Even if he had to corner Sukuna, even if Sukuna didn’t want to listen, Yuuji wouldn’t walk away this time.

He reached for his bag on the passenger seat, barely remembering what he’d shoved inside it. His head was still fuzzy from lack of sleep and too many thoughts pressing in from every direction.

Yuuji pushed open the car door and stepped out, the crisp of air biting at his skin. Slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he started toward the main building, his steps quick and determined.

If Sukuna wasn’t in the art club room, he’d search every hallway, every floor, every corner of campus until he found him.

Yuuji walked slowly down the hallway, his sneakers echoing softly against the polished floor. Outside, a light midday drizzle tapped gently against the windows, cooling the air and leaving a faint scent of rain drifting through the building every time someone opened a door. The light filtering in was soft and overcast, muting the usual brightness of the hall. A few students moved here and there, speaking in calm voices, some carrying portfolios or art supplies fresh from their classes. It wasn’t crowded, just that quiet lull of early afternoon on a rainy day, when campus felt slower, gentler, almost hushed.

He turned at the intersection near the art wing when he caught sight of Megumi.

Megumi was walking with Nobara. His eyes looked red and swollen—he’d been crying, Yuuji could tell. For a second, their gazes met across the hall. Yuuji froze, wanting to say something, anything, but Megumi’s expression shuttered instantly. He turned away without a word, his jaw tight, and walked in the opposite direction.

Nobara, of course, didn’t let it slide. She glared at Yuuji, eyes burning, then lifted her middle finger high before spinning around and jogging after Megumi.

Yuuji exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Great. Just great. If Nobara already knew, then the whole friend group probably would soon enough. He stared at the floor for a long moment, willing himself not to crumble right there in the middle of the hallway. He needed to stay focused—find Sukuna. That was what mattered now.

He lowered his head, ready to take another step when a pair of shoes appeared in his line of sight. Stopping. Right in front of him. Yuuji blinked, confused, and slowly lifted his gaze.

And there he was Uraume.

Expression cold. Posture straight. Eyes sharp with a seriousness that made Yuuji’s stomach twist.

“Let’s talk,” Uraume said flatly.

---------------------------

Yuuji’s chest rose and fell unevenly, breath catching in his throat like fire. His fists still trembled at his sides, knuckles raw from the blow he’d just thrown. The sting in his hand barely registered, his pulse was pounding too hard in his ears. Every inch of him felt tight, like his body was holding back the storm clawing to break loose inside.

In front of him stood Uraume, face unreadable as always, only a faint redness on his cheek where Yuuji’s fist had landed. He had stumbled half a step before regaining his balance, straightening his spine with that rigid, soldier-like precision of his.

The other man—long hair tied loosely behind his head, sharp eyes, and an unsettlingly calm demeanor—wasn’t so composed. He was still crouched slightly, one hand pressed against his jaw, wincing in pain. This was the stranger Uraume had introduced earlier as Suguru Geto.

The three of them were in an abandoned building now, somewhere on the edge of town. The air was thick with dust and rain-damp concrete, sunlight bleeding faintly through broken windows. Every sound seemed amplified—the echo of their breaths, the distant drip of water, Yuuji’s heartbeat hammering in his skull.

Uraume had approached him earlier today, asking for a private conversation, and said it was about Sukuna. Yuuji didn’t hesitate. He’d followed. Back to the parking lot, into his car, driving to this empty building on the promise of answers.

Yuuji sat in the driver’s seat, fingers drumming restlessly against the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for Uraume to start talking. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until the click of a car door startled him.

The back door opened, and a man Yuuji had never seen before slipped in smoothly, as if he’d done this a hundred times. He didn’t say a word—just adjusted his coat and sat back like it was his car.

Before Yuuji could ask who the hell he was, Uraume spoke calmly from the passenger seat,

“We’ll explain everything once we’re somewhere safe. Not here.”

Yuuji wanted to argue and demand answers but something in Uraume’s tone stopped him. He knew this was about Sukuna. Whatever this was, whatever danger or madness it led to, Yuuji couldn’t walk away. He’d already promised himself he’d do anything for Sukuna.

So, he started the engine and drove.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at what looked like an abandoned house at the edge of the city. Its walls were chipped and moldy, the air outside damp with the smell of rain and rust. The long-haired man got out first, leading the way through a door that creaked open with a groan.

Inside, it was dim. The air was heavy with dust and leftover food. An old sofa sagged in the middle of the room, a small table in front of it covered with takeout boxes, and next to it—a computer setup with tangled wires and a flickering monitor. The place looked less like a home and more like a hideout for someone on the run.

Yuuji stayed close to the exit, standing near the door that had just been shut behind them. His eyes scanned the room, memorizing every possible way out.

Uraume stood near the window, his expression unreadable. The long-haired man—Suguru Geto, as Uraume introduced him—stood in front of both of them.

Then Uraume began to speak.

He explained everything. About Sukuna. About what happened a year ago. About what happened last night. And about what he and Geto were planning to do next.

Yuuji didn’t even realize when his breathing grew uneven, or when his hands curled into fists. He couldn’t remember the exact moment he lost control. Maybe it was when Uraume said Sukuna had a panic attack and left that neither of them handled it right. Or maybe it was when he said Sukuna had left and hadn’t been seen since.

The next thing he saw was Uraume staggering back, and Geto clutching the side of his face where Yuuji’s second punch had landed.

Now, back to the present—Yuuji stood where he was, chest heaving, his knuckles throbbing red. Uraume had straightened his stance again, calm as if he’d expected the blow. Geto, still beside him, standing closer now, was rubbing his jaw and watching Yuuji with that calm, assessing look—like someone studying a wild animal deciding whether to fight or flee.

The room was silent except for the steady patter of rain against the window.

Yuuji’s pulse pounded in his ears. He didn’t know whether to scream, run, or beg for answers but one thing was clear, he was done being left in the dark.

Yuuji’s chest heaved as he shouted, “What do you mean Sukuna’s missing?! Are you insane, Uraume?!”

Uraume didn’t even flinch, “Listen, I didn’t want any of this to happen either,” he replied flatly, brushing off the accusation, “but it seems I picked an idiot for a partner, so here we are.”

“Hey!” Geto barked, clutching his already sore jaw, “You can’t blame this all on me, shorty! This is your fault for not telling him from the start!”

Before Yuuji could even react, Uraume’s fist shot out again—another clean punch to Geto’s other jaw. The sharp crack echoed in the room.

Geto stumbled back, groaning in pain. And Uraume turned calmly back toward Yuuji, completely unfazed, as if nothing had happened.

“He’s not missing,” Uraume said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “Your friend, Gojo, took him. So now tell me where Satoru Gojo lives, and I’ll fix this with Sukuna.”

Yuuji’s glare hardened, “You mean to tell me you dragged me all the way here just for that? You think Sukuna will ever want to see you again after what you’ve done?”

That one landed. Uraume went silent for a moment, his jaw tightening like he didn’t have a good answer.

Then Yuuji took a slow breath and spoke, steady but firm, “Listen, Uraume. I’ll tell you where Satoru lives. But I have two conditions.”

Uraume scoffed, folding his arms, “Two are too many for someone like you, Itadori.”

“Don’t call me that,” Yuuji warned sharply.

Uraume tilted his head slightly, his tone dripping with disdain, “Then what should I call you? Sukuna’s brother? You don’t even deserve that title.”

“I know that!” Yuuji snapped, voice cracking with anger and guilt, “Damn it! What do you even want from me?! If you don’t need my help, I’ll find Sukuna myself. I know where Satoru lives anyway.”

He turned toward the door, ready to leave, but Geto stepped forward and raised a hand, wincing as he spoke, “Hey, don’t listen to this sharp-mouthed brat,” he said, jerking his chin toward Uraume—earning an immediate death glare in return.

“Look, Itadori—sorry, Yuuji—listen. We need to find Sukuna together. There’s something else I have to explain to both of you. If Uraume wants to be stubborn, fine, I don’t care. Now tell me, what are your conditions for taking me to Gojo Satoru’s place?”

Yuuji stared at him, suspicion flickering behind his tired eyes. He didn’t answer right away, just exhaled sharply and turned back around, signaling he wasn’t leaving just yet.

Geto took it as a good sign and continued, rubbing at his bruised face, “Look, even if I’m as amazing and brilliant hacker as I am—” he gestured dramatically toward the mess of computer equipment in the corner, “there’s no way I can break through the Gojo family’s security. I don’t even know where Satoru lives. No one does. Not even the best hackers in the world could find his real address.”

“Well, lucky you,” Yuuji muttered, his voice edged with bitterness as he shot both Uraume and Geto a hard look, “Because I do know exactly where Satoru Gojo lives.”

Neither of them replied. The air in the abandoned house felt heavier than before, like everyone knew this was the point of no return.

Yuuji’s words hung in the air for a moment before Yuuji straightened his posture, his shoulders squaring as he faced both men. His gaze shifted between them—first at Geto, then locking firmly on Uraume’s cold, unreadable eyes.

“First,” Yuuji began, his tone steady but low, “I want to know everything you know about the Ryoumen clan—everything. Including what really happened to Sukuna.” He paused for a beat, letting the words sink in. “Second, I want you to involve me in whatever plan you’re running. I don’t care how dangerous it is. Just—put me in it.”

Geto was the first to react. He blinked, then leaned back slightly with a soft, dry laugh, “Look, the first one—I don’t actually know that much. But I swear I will tell you everything I know about it. And this guy,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Uraume, “probably knows more than anyone in this world. And the second one…” Geto sighed, rubbing his jaw, “I think I’ll have to talk to my boss about that. You do know there’s someone pulling the strings behind all this, right? So yeah—I can arrange something for you.”

Yuuji only nodded, his jaw tight. His eyes then shifted back to Uraume, waiting for his answer. Both he and Geto turned toward him, silently testing whether Uraume would agree or refuse.

The silver-haired man finally moved. His movements were calm but deliberate. He stepped closer to where Yuuji and Geto stood by the exit, stopping just a few feet away. His eyes studied Yuuji—cold, assessing, as if searching for even the slightest trace of deceit.

“I’ll tell you what I can about the Ryoumen clan,” he said, voice calm but laced with warning, “But… I mean I will tell you if Sukuna gives me permission to speak of it. Otherwise, you’ll hear nothing.” He folded his arms. “And involving you in a plan we’ve spent years building…” he exhaled slowly through his nose, “that’s not something easily done. We’ll need to discuss it with the others.”

Yuuji met his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll take it.”

He didn’t have any other choice. It was either this—or nothing at all.

---------------------------

Tokyo’s streets were unusually crowded for a weekday afternoon like this, the slow-moving traffic that always came right before winter break. Cars crept forward in uneven lines, tires hissing against the wet asphalt. Rain beaded across Yuuji’s windshield, the wipers squeaking softly as they pushed each sheet of water aside.

Yuuji sat tensely in the driver’s seat as they rolled to a stop at a red light.

Uraume hadn’t spoken a single word since the car started moving. He was sitting rigid in the passenger seat, face blank, eyes fixed forward as if calculating every turn in advance. Maybe he was memorizing the route. Maybe he was just ignoring Yuuji. Yuuji wasn’t sure.

Geto, on the other hand, lounged in the backseat, tapping at a device Yuuji thought was a phone though its shape looked slightly wrong, like something experimental or illegal. Yuuji tried not to think too hard about it.

No one had spoken for the last ten minutes.

Only the rain, the hum of the engine, and the muffled traffic outside filled the silence. And in another fifteen minutes, they would arrive at Satoru Gojo’s home.

Yuuji drummed his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, exhaling through his nose. He hadn’t realized until this exact moment how strange it was that he knew where Gojo lived would help him.

Gojo didn’t act like the type to hide where he stayed. He didn’t have the air of someone living under secrecy or protection. He joked too much for that. Smiled too much. Waved too enthusiastically whenever Yuuji showed up at his door.

But as Yuuji thought harder, the truth lined up in front of him like puzzle pieces. Only four people had ever actually been inside Gojo’s place— him, Megumi, Shoko, and Yuuta. That was it. Not even Nobara, Panda or Inumaki. Not even his own clubmates. For someone as loud and reckless as Gojo… that should’ve been strange.

Yuuji’s grip tightened on the wheel. Guess, knowing where Satoru Gojo lives is a big deal. He swallowed hard, glancing at Uraume beside him, then at Geto’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

Fifteen more minutes and they will arrive. Fifteen more minutes and everything could change.

Satoru Gojo’s residence rose like a silver monolith in the center of Tokyo—a glass tower wrapped in clouds, perched in one of the most exclusive districts in the city. The kind of place the average person couldn’t even walk into without security politely escorting them out.

A penthouse in the tallest building in Tokyo.

Yuuji slowed the car as they passed through the gated checkpoint. Even he, someone who grew up inside another powerful clan, couldn’t help but feel small standing at the foot of this place. Well… it made sense. Satoru Gojo was the heir of the Gojo clan. The strongest lineage in Japan. Everyone knew that. But almost no one knew where the heir actually lived.

Yuuji only knew by sheer accident—because during their first year of college, he’d tagged along when Shoko dragged him, Megumi, and Yuuta out drinking with Gojo. One thing led to another, and they all ended up passed out in Gojo’s penthouse. After that, the four of them ended up hanging out there more often, like barbecues on the massive balcony, video game tournaments in his ridiculous huge penthouse.

Thinking about it now, Yuuji realized how rare that was. Because most of their friends didn’t even know Gojo had a penthouse. Maybe Satoru hid his private life more than he let on. And now they were driving straight to him because Sukuna, for some reason, ended up with Gojo of all people. Why the hell was Satoru Gojo with Sukuna? He’d hated Sukuna from day one. 

The thought tightened something in him. He remembered how Gojo looked at Sukuna in class the other day. It wasn’t his usual mocking interest. It wasn’t even an annoyance. It was something else. Something Yuuji didn’t like.

Don’t tell me… Don’t tell me he’s interested in Sukuna?

“Oh hell no,” Yuuji muttered under his breath, fingers gripping the wheel. If he tries anything, I swear I’ll rip his stupid white hair out.

His train of thought was interrupted when Geto suddenly leaned forward between the two front seats, “Damn,” he said, whistling low, “I should’ve known he lived in this area.”

Yuuji nearly jumped. He shot Geto a sideways glare, then muttered, “You know Satoru? You talk like you’ve met him before.”

Geto gave a half bitter smile, “Something like that. We knew each other a long time ago.” He rubbed the side of his bruised jaw, “Might get punched again today, who knows? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He laughed at himself, half fond, half pained. As if the idea of Gojo hitting him again was both ridiculous and somehow nostalgic. Like they were former best friends or sworn enemies or both.

Yuuji stared at him, unsettled. Something about the way Geto said that. Something about his tone made Yuuji feel like he had just stepped into a much bigger story than he realized.

They finallyi turned into the district where Satoru lived and even from inside the car, the shift in atmosphere hit him like a cold wind.

The streets narrowed into quiet, manicured avenues, lined with trimmed hedges and stone walls that whispered old money. The buildings grew taller, sleeker. Rain slid down their mirrored surfaces like silver ribbons. There were discreet signs of wealth. The private parking entrances, uniformed security patrolling the sidewalks, tinted cars gliding through puddles without splashing.

A few turns later, the Audi slowed at the entrance of a towering skyscraper. A 60+ floor glass monolith— that glittered against the gray sky. The guard recognized Yuuji’s car immediately and stepped aside. The underground garage was another world: smooth concrete, temperature-controlled air, rows of luxury cars that probably cost more than Sukuna’s entire scholarship.

Yuuji parked between two black Jaguars, in the visitor’s section and stepped out. Uraume and Suguru followed in silence. They walked to the elevator from the basement that opened into the grand lobby. The lobby itself has crystal chandeliers hovered from the ceiling like frozen constellations. The floor was polished enough to reflect passing silhouettes. Soft classical music hummed from invisible speakers.

And just ahead sat a reception desk, polished walnut and brass. The receptionist looked up — a young woman with short hair— and upon seeing Yuuji, her expression lit warmly.

“Oh — Itadori-san. You’re here to see Gojo-sama?”

“Yeah,” Yuuji replied, trying to sound normal.

Her eyes flicked to Uraume and Suguru, looking at two unfamiliar, dangerous-looking men half drenched in rain — but she didn’t ask questions. After all, anyone with Yuuji probably came with Gojo’s permission.

She tapped a few keys, scanned Yuuji’s ID, and nodded, “Access confirmed. I’ll unlock the private lift for you.”

A soft beep echoed as she pressed a code.

Suguru leaned sideways toward Yuuji as they walked toward the elevator, “Damn,” he whispered, a grin tugging at his mouth.

Yuuji didn’t respond.

And the elevator began to rise. The air inside felt tight because no one spoke. Uraume stood stiffly with arms crossed, staring at the ascending floor numbers as if counting each one. Suguru leaned back against the rail, strangely tense despite his casual posture. And Yuuji swallowed, trying to steady his breathing.

The soft ding startled all three of them.

Yuuji stepped out first into the quiet private hallway — a long stretch of polished dark wood, dim golden lights, and a single large door at the very end.

And there it is, Satoru’s door.

He approached it slowly. His hand hovered over the doorbell. He inhaled sharply. Then he pressed the bell. But no one answered. He pressed it again. Still nothing. 

Finally, Yuuji leaned toward the intercom beside the door. The tiny camera blinked awake.

He swallowed, then forced his voice out:

“Hey… Satoru. It’s me, Yuuji.”

---------------------------

They waited for what felt like forever.

Yuuji didn’t even realize he was counting the seconds in his head until he reached one minute and thirty-nine, and even then the silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, like the air was refusing to move. When the door finally clicked, the sound echoed sharply in the hallway, too loud for such an expensive, quiet building. It made him flinch. He didn’t know why. Maybe because everything about this situation felt wrong from the moment they stepped out of the elevator.

Uraume stood to his right, and although his expression remained carefully composed, Yuuji noticed the subtle tension in his shoulders and the way his fingers curled against their own palm. Suguru, on his left, who was usually the most casually confident person in any room, also looked unusually stiff, his posture straight and his eyes darting briefly toward the door like he was preparing for something he hadn’t rehearsed in years.

The tension among the three of them built and built until Yuuji felt like he was doing something terrible, like he was trespassing somewhere he shouldn’t be. As if knocking on Satoru’s door without warning was some kind of unforgivable crime and he wasn’t ready to deal with the consequences.

The door opened only a few centimeters. Not enough to see inside. Not enough to invite anyone in. Just enough for Yuuji to glimpse Satoru through the narrow gap. That’s strange. Because just the other day, Satoru Gojo will just open it wide for Yuuji.

He leaned forward instinctively, and the sight that greeted him made his breath catch. Satoru’s usually pristine white T-shirt was wrinkled, his hair a disheveled mess, and the look in his eyes was sharper than usual, alert in a way that wasn’t entirely welcoming.

“Hey,” Satoru said, his voice calm in a way that didn’t feel natural at all, “You don’t usually show up without telling me first. What’s going on?” He didn’t open the door wider. He didn’t step forward. He simply stood behind the narrow opening, like there was something behind him he didn’t want anyone to see.

Yuuji forced himself to smile. “Hi! Sorry for coming all of a sudden, but it’s… important. Can I come in?”

There was a pause, a long enough pause for Yuuji to feel his confidence crumble but then Satoru nodded and said, “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Okay. Come in.” He pushed the door open, just a little at first, and then wider to let Yuuji step through.

But the moment he saw who was standing behind Yuuji, his hand froze on the door. His entire body went still.

Suguru stepped into view with a strained smile and lifted his hand in a small, awkward wave, “Oh, hi, Satoru! Long time no see.”

For a moment, Satoru didn’t breathe. He didn’t even blink.

Yuuji had never seen him like this. Satoru, who always handled everything with ease, who always cracked jokes to lighten any tension, was suddenly a statue. His face drained, eyes locked onto Suguru as if he were looking at a ghost. 

Suguru Geto looked almost exactly the same as the last time Satoru had seen him. Was it middle school graduation? No, probably before that?

Satoru wasn’t even sure anymore. Those years had blurred so much that he could barely tell memory from imagination. All he knew was that the boy he once knew had vanished without a word, leaving nothing but empty summers in his place.

Yet the man standing in front of him now was both familiar and painfully foreign. Suguru was taller—broad-shouldered, his frame filled out, his presence steadier than the restless boy Satoru remembered. His hair, once wild and constantly falling into his eyes, was now tied up neatly at the back of his head. But the smile—God, the smile—was exactly the same.

That awkward, slightly crooked smile he always wore whenever they got in trouble, like the time they shattered the school’s window playing soccer in the cold of midwinter. The same smile Suguru had thrown at him the first time they met. The same smile he used whenever words failed him.

And now, more than a decade later, was it already a decade? the bastard had the nerve to give him that exact smile again. As if nothing had changed. As if those years of silence meant nothing. As if Satoru’s desperate search, the nights he spent wondering where Suguru had gone, what had happened to him, whether he was even alive—meant absolutely nothing. As if the bond they built, the one Satoru held onto for years, was just something that could be tossed aside like an old photograph.

As if Satoru himself was nothing.

Satoru had never imagined that this—this—was how he would see his best friend again. His best friend, his first love or maybe his ex, though that word felt ridiculous because they never had a real ending. No closure. No explanation. Only Suguru disappearing one day and never coming back.

A part of Satoru wanted to grab him and pull him close, bury his face in his shoulder and ask every question he’d been holding back since he was fourteen. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why did you make me look for you for years? His chest felt tight, almost burning. His eyes stung with a heat he refused to acknowledge. His hands trembled. Not just with anger, but with overwhelming, bone-deep longing.

But instead of embracing Suguru—Satoru lunged.

His fist connected with Suguru’s jaw in a sharp, brutal arc, the force sending Suguru stumbling backward. The sound echoed in the hallway, loud enough that Yuuji flinched and Uraume stiffened. Suguru didn’t even have time to lift his hands before Satoru’s weight crashed onto him, both of them hitting the floor.

Satoru didn’t stop.

He grabbed Suguru by the collar and punched him again—once, twice—each blow fueled by a tangled mess of fury, betrayal, grief, and a twisted kind of relief so intense it made his vision blur. His knuckles throbbed. His breath shook. He didn’t know if he was angry because Suguru left or because he was finally here. Safe.

Suguru didn’t fight back. He only grunted as the impact rocked him, eyes squeezed shut, letting Satoru hit him as if he believed he deserved every single strike.

Because maybe he did.

Yuuji reacted first, his body moving before his mind caught up. He grabbed Satoru around the shoulders and pulled him back with all the strength he had. Uraume stepped in immediately, slipping between the two men with a precision and calm that suggested he’d been prepared for something like this, even if he didn’t show it. 

And Suguru didn’t resist at all. He let himself be dragged away, head tilted down, one hand covering the spot on his lip where blood slowly trickled down.

Satoru didn’t fight either, but his entire body trembled. Whether from anger, adrenaline, or something he didn’t dare name. His breaths came sharp and uneven, the sound of someone who had held everything in for far too long and was suddenly crushed under the weight of it all. 

They ended up standing just outside the doorway, all four of them clustered awkwardly in the silent corridor. Suguru leaned heavily on Uraume’s arm as he helped him up, the right side of his face already reddening with bruises, his lower lip split in two places. The sight of it almost made Yuuji step back because he had never seen Satoru hit someone like that. Not with that kind of emotion behind it.

Yuuji kept a tight grip on Satoru’s arm, trying to anchor him, “Satoru—hey—calm down. It’s okay. He’s not going to—”

Suguru let out a short laugh, breathy and pained, cutting Yuuji off, “You didn’t even let me speak, huh, Satoru?” he murmured, wincing as he touched the bleeding corner of his lip. “Some things never change, I guess.”

The mocking softness in his voice made Satoru’s fists clench so hard his knuckles turned white. His eyes were sharp, almost glowing with the residue of rage he hadn’t fully processed. Yuuji felt Satoru’s muscles coil under his grip, ready to spring again, and had to tighten his hold.

“What are you doing here, Suguru?” Satoru asked through gritted teeth. His voice was low, gravelly, still trying not to break apart. He looked directly at Suguru, he kept his eyes trained on those dark eyes, jaw set so hard the veins in his neck stood out.

Yuuji stayed between them, arms slightly extended, as if he could physically hold back all the unresolved history pressing into the hallway.

Suguru opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Uraume spoke in his place, “We’re here to talk, Gojo.”

Satoru slowly turned his head toward Uraume, and for a moment, Yuuji actually felt the temperature drop. Satoru's expression shifted, like he was trying to gauge whether Uraume’s presence was a threat, an insult, or something far worse.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Satoru snapped, voice suddenly razor sharp. He lifted his chin, expression hardening, “Whatever you want, whatever you think you’re here for—save it. I don’t care. Leave.”

His hand twitched, as if ready to slam the door shut.

“Fine. If you refuse to listen to us, then at least let us meet Sukuna. We need to talk to him. I know he’s inside.” Uraume finally stepped forward, voice tight with urgency. He had no interest in whatever emotional disaster was unfolding between Satoru and Suguru. The only thing that mattered was getting to Sukuna before everything spiraled even further out of control.

Satoru turned toward them slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a thin, derisive smile, “And what makes you think I’d let you see Sukuna?”

“I…” Yuuji cut in, stepping slightly forward. His voice trembled, but it was steady enough to hold weight. “I’m his brother. I have every right to see him, Satoru. Please. This is important.”

But Satoru stared back at him as if Yuuji had just betrayed him in the most unforgivable way. Shock flickered across his face, “No,” he said immediately, firmly. “If you want to talk, you’ll talk right here.”

Uraume exhaled, a long, restrained breath that was one second away from snapping. “Are you seriously that stupid, Gojo? We said this is important.” His tone was brutally flat, brutally honest, cutting straight through the tension, “Which is exactly why we can’t say it out here. Not with your ridiculous security cameras in every damn corner. I know how your clan works. I know how easy it is to hack a CCTV feed.”

Uruame’s eyes flicked to Suguru—who, for some reason, looked far too pleased with the statement, grinning like a delinquent who had just been praised for doing something illegal and fun.

Satoru gave a low, humorless laugh. “Are you underestimating me, Uraume?”

“No,” Uraume answered without a blink. “Not you. Your clan.”

That—that—finally made Satoru still. A heavy, uneasy stillness that seemed to settle over his shoulders.

Slowly, Satoru glanced toward one camera at the end of the hallway. Then another. Then another. Each one blinked with that steady green light. The glow felt colder than it should have. Too cold for such an expensive building. Too cold for a penthouse floor meant to guarantee privacy.

It's watching them. Recording them. Waiting, as if hungry for a slip, a secret, a whisper of something that should never leave anyone’s lips. Satoru knew how dirty his clan was. He knew Uraume was right. 

Before Satoru even had the chance to respond to Uraume, a sound drifted out from deeper inside the apartment, like something brushing against glass or tile. It cut through the air sharply enough that all four of them froze mid-breath.

For a long, suspended moment, they simply stared at one another, eyes widening with the same silent question, the same sharp stab of dread. Then Satoru moved, Yuuji was right behind him, panic blooming across his face, while Uraume and Suguru followed close after, their footsteps echoing across the polished floor as they crossed the open living area that always looked too pristine, too sterile to belong to an actual home.

They rushed past the living room towards the staircase that led up to Satoru’s private floor. That was where Satoru intended to go, where he knew Sukuna was supposed to be resting, asleep, recovering. His feet had already angled toward the stairs, already preparing to take the first step two at a time, when something made him stop so abruptly that Yuuji nearly collided with his back. Because Sukuna was not upstairs.

He was standing downstairs. In Satoru’s kitchen.

And what a devastating picture he made.

Sukuna stood pressed into the far corner near the fridge—Satoru’s gleaming, unused kitchen. The boy was still wearing Satoru’s clothes, the soft white T-shirt far too wide at the collar, sagging over the jut of his collarbones, and the grey drawstring pants pooling around his ankles because the fabric swallowed his frame. The overhead lights cast a pale glow on him, picking out the tremor in his shoulders and the stark contrast of color against his skin.

Shards of broken glass glittered around his bare feet. Pieces of a water bottle, several more collapsed on their sides, their spilled contents forming thin streams that lapped against the tiles. And near Sukuna’s heel lay his mother’s porcelain vase, the one he’d kept tucked away because he could never quite bring himself to throw it out, even after years of wanting to. It lay split cleanly across the floor, its pale painted flowers shattered beyond repair.

And in Sukuna’s hands was a kitchen knife gripped tight in his left. And a .32 caliber handgun—Satoru’s handgun—in his right.

Fuck. Sukuna had taken his gun. He had actually taken his fucking gun.

Satoru knew he’d hidden it well—tucked beneath the side panel of the bedside drawer, practically pressed into the frame. A hiding spot he’d used for years. A spot no random visitor should have found. Maybe Uraume was right. Gojo Satoru, you absolute idiot. Or maybe Satoru simply underestimated Sukuna. He’s a Ryoumen after all.

Whatever the reason, he needed to move that gun’s hiding place. If he survived this.

The two objects looked horribly wrong in his grasp, like they belonged to a different world than the thin, trembling boy struggling to stay upright. His expression was difficult to read from where they stood—somewhere between distant and terrified, between defensive and cornered—but his eyes were unmistakably wild, rimmed red as if he had been crying, or trying very hard not to. His chest rose unevenly, breath catching in shallow, frightened bursts, and his fingers tightened reflexively around the metal and the blade as if letting go might be even more dangerous.

Behind Satoru, the rest of the group slowed to a stop, their attention pulled instantly toward the sight of Sukuna standing amidst broken glass, holding a knife and a gun like they were natural extensions of his hands.

Sukuna’s eyes flicked upward at the sound of their footsteps. And he froze. Then panic flashed across his features.

And before anyone could react, Sukuna jerked the pistol upward—aiming it directly at them, both hands rigid, shoulders slumped but tight with adrenaline. The kitchen knife trembled in his other hand.

“Don’t come closer!” he shouted, voice cracking at the edges. The words rang through the penthouse with a rawness that made all of them stop where they stood.

“Okay, look—Sukuna,” Satoru said carefully, lifting both hands in a slow, deliberate arc, palms open. His voice softened in a way it rarely ever did, stripped of its usual confidence, “Put the gun down first. We can talk. No one here is going to hurt you.”

But Sukuna’s lips twisted into a sharp, humorless smile, his eyes burning with the brittle shine of someone pushed far beyond fear, “Oh, Gojo Satoru,” he spat the name like a curse, “Do you think I’m stupid? I must’ve been, to trust you even for a second. What were you planning, huh? Working with them—capturing me—and using Yuuji against me?” The hand holding the gun trembled, but his voice only grew sharper. “Really? This trick is fucking old you know. Let me guess, Uraume’s idea? Or maybe yours, Kenjaku?”

He swung the pistol toward each of them—Satoru, Suguru, Uraume—everybody except Yuuji, who stood frozen near the living room threshold, his breath caught in his throat.

“Sukuna-sama, you’re misunderstanding the situation,” Uraume tried, stepping forward slightly. His tone was calm, measured, hoping to bridge the widening gap of paranoia. “Please, listen—he’s not Kenjaku. He’s—”

“Shut up!” Sukuna’s scream ripped out of him with such force that even Suguru flinched. The sound shook through his entire body, shoulders jerking, knees buckling slightly as exhaustion and fever clawed at him. Still, he refused to let his stance falter. Even on the verge of collapsing, he looked ready to fight every living person in that room.

Then his gaze snapped to Yuuji.

“Yuuji. Come here.”

His voice dropped, taut pleas wrapped in authority he barely possessed anymore. Yuuji blinked, confusion breaking over him like a wave. He looked from Sukuna’s feverish eyes to the gun shaking in his brother’s hand, then back at Satoru as though searching for permission, for explanation, for anything that made this make sense.

Before he could speak, Satoru placed a firm hand between Yuuji’s shoulder blades and nudged him forward. No pressure, just enough to tell him yes, go, it’s okay. Yuuji swallowed hard and obeyed, taking slow steps toward Sukuna until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his brother’s trembling body.

The moment he sensed Yuuji within reach, Sukuna moved like someone dragging himself through water. He shifted, pulling Yuuji behind him and stretching his left arm out protectively. The knife glinted under the kitchen lights as he positioned himself like a human barrier. Determined to shield Yuuji from the “intruders” he believed were trying to snatch him away.

The sight was so backward, so painfully wrong, that even Suguru had to take a long breath before speaking, “Okay. This is starting to get ridiculous,” he muttered, raising his hands as well, though his frustration seeped through, “Listen, Sukuna. I’m not Kenjaku. Look at me. Look properly.”

He touched his own hair, tugging a strand forward. “See this? My hair. Completely different. Kenny’s hair is shorter and uglier..” Then he gestured down to his clothes—dark blue and white sweater, loose black baggy jeans, black and white sneakers, nothing like Kenjaku’s immaculate, too formal attire. “Look at my style. I would rather die than wear the crap he does. His taste is objectively worse.”

He stepped closer, pointing at his own forehead. “And this—look. No scar. No incision mark. Because I’m Suguru Geto. The very twin brother of the bastard who actually is our enemy.”

Sukuna stared, narrowing his eyes in a way that suggested he was trying, genuinely trying, to make sense of the information. The fever blurred his vision, the panic muddled his thoughts, and the old conditioning of fear and survival had him by the throat.

He let out a low hiss, “Don’t talk nonsense, Ken. You think I can’t tell?” His grip tightened on the weapon, knuckles whitening, “You know I’m a good shot. You taught me well, thank you. So, now you know exactly what I can do with this gun.”

Sukuna’s fingers tightened around the grip of Satoru’s pistol, knuckles paling as though the metal itself was an anchor keeping him from collapsing. Even with the barrel wavering unsteadily, there was no doubt he was ready to fire. Anyone who didn’t know him would have seen him as dangerous. But Satoru Gojo—who by all standards should’ve been the most cautious one in the room—didn’t flinch.

In fact, he found himself staring. Not in fear, but in unabashed, deeply inappropriate fascination.

Sukuna stood in the harsh kitchen lighting with his thin frame tense, his skin still too pale from fever, sweat dampening the collar of Satoru’s oversized white shirt. The sleeves swallowed his arms but ended short enough to reveal the bandages wrapped around his elbows, forearms, even the faint strips across his cheek. The tattoos curling along his skin peeked through the loose fabric, stark and beautiful against the tremble of his muscles.

Sukuna looked devastating. He’s so beautiful, Satoru had to shake his head to focus that this is not the time to admire his crush. And Satoru hated that his heartbeat reacted before his brain did. There was something wrong with him—had to be—because nothing about this situation was remotely romantic. But his chest thudded anyway, quick and reckless, like his ribs couldn’t contain it, “Absolutely insane,” he muttered silently to himself. He's completely lost it.

Meanwhile, Suguru tried to salvage what little logic remained in the room, “Okay,” he said slowly, glancing between Sukuna and Satoru in desperation, “Listen. I can prove it. I can prove I’m not Kenjaku.”

His eyes flicked pointedly to Satoru, “Hey, Satoru. Do you have a laptop or anything I can use? My setup is in my bag, but the battery died last night. Forgot to charge it, you know we were kind of busy last night, right?”, Suguru gave Satoru that stupid smile again.

Satoru shot him a suspicious look but he still nodded, “There’s a laptop on my desk upstairs. I can get it.” He half-turned toward the stairs, then hesitated, glancing at Sukuna as though asking permission.

The gun clicked subtly as Sukuna shifted his aim, “No,” he said sharply, “Don’t move. I know this trick, Ken. I know it too well. You’re not fooling me again, and neither are you, Gojo.” He tugged Yuuji’s hand, pulling his twin closer to his side, his posture coiling with the intent to flee. “So let us go. Let me leave and no one gets shot.”

He started guiding Yuuji around the kitchen island, preparing to circumvent all of them and bolt for the door. Yuuji’s heart lurched. His brother was burning up, barely standing, confused, terrified and somehow still trying to protect him while pointing a gun at the only people who could help.

“S’kuna. Wait.” Yuuji raised his free hand slowly, “What if… what if I’m the one who gets it?”

Sukuna stopped mid-step. His brows drew together, the edges twitching in disbelief.

“The laptop,” Yuuji clarified gently, voice softening as though trying not to rustle a skittish animal, “I’ll get it. Satoru won’t move, no one will follow me. Just me. You trust me, right?”

A complicated expression flickered across Sukuna’s face. He looked almost offended, “Of course I trust you, idiot,” he snapped, almost sulking. “You’re the only one here I trust. It’s them I don’t trust.” Sukuna said it like a fact. He does trust Yuuji all his life.

Yuuji drew a slow, steady breath as he tightened his grip on the kitchen knife, holding it in a way that made him look more like a deranged amateur than a threat, but somehow that only added tension to the room, “Okay, listen. Here’s what we’re going to do…” he said, pointing the blade toward Satoru, Uraume, and Suguru one by one, “Satoru, Uraume, and Suguru, you step away from the stairs and sit down in the living room. Sukuna will stay and keep an eye on you. Then I’ll go get the laptop upstairs and bring it back down so Suguru can prove he’s not Kenjaku. How’s that sound?”

He swept his eyes across them, silently begging them to just go along with him. He caught Uraume’s uncertain expression and tried to push a desperate please cooperate through his gaze.

The tension was suffocating.

“That’s a good idea,” Satoru replied, a little too quickly, earning an immediate, poisonous glare from Sukuna.

“No.” Sukuna snapped, suddenly lowered the gun from its perfect firing stance, turning to Yuuji with raw irritation tightening every line in his face, “Yuuji, are you stupid?! Don’t do that!”

“Sukuna, please...”

“No. You don’t know how cunning that man is.”

“Just this once, okay? Trust me.”

“No.”

“Come on, Sukuna—”

“I said no means no, Yuuji! We’re going home. That’s it. Let’s go.”

Yuuji froze for a second, realization flickering in his eyes. Sukuna's fever is so bad, it makes him fuzzy and not thinking right. That's the only reason why Sukuna is like this, right? What else then? Because there's no way that Sukuna actually saying "we are going home" to Yuuji of all people.

Slowly, he placed the knife onto the counter behind him so Sukuna wouldn’t notice, then stepped closer, hands rising to grip Sukuna’s shoulders gently, “Okay, okay. Listen... I actually wanted to grab your hoodie too.” His voice softened, coaxing, “How about that? I know you can’t go anywhere without your favourite hoodie. We can’t leave without it, right? I know that.”

Sukuna brushed off Yuuji’s hands and jutted out his lower lip, stubborn and offended, “No. I’m fine. I'm not cold.”

The other three—Satoru, Suguru, and Uraume—exchanged a collective look of absolute disbelief. This was the same Sukuna who’d been holding a gun to their faces moments earlier. The same Sukuna who threatened to shoot them through the heart seconds ago. And yet here he was, sulking like a petulant child arguing with his brother about his favourite hoodie.

“Come on, Sukuna,” Yuuji continued, voice trembling at the edges, “Suguru deserves a chance to give whatever proof he has. And if that proof isn’t enough to convince you, I promise, I promise we’ll go home. Okay?” His throat tightened on the last words, because saying it out loud felt like touching a fragile dream where taking Sukuna back home was a real possibility.

He could feel the heat radiating off Sukuna’s skin even from this close. The fever was worsening. Yuuji knew that this strange softness from Sukuna, this willingness to look at him, answer him, argue with him—wasn’t normal. Sukuna was slipping into a delirious survival mode, acting purely on instinct and fear. He was desperate and feverish. He believed whatever wild threat crossed his mind.

“You don’t understand, Yuuji,” Sukuna hissed, voice cracking with panic, “They are vile! He’ll capture me and we’ll never see each other again!”

“Oh, No..., no, no. No. Not going to happen," Yuuji reached for him again, gently, “I won’t let that happen, okay? Do you hear me? Nobody is ever taking you away again.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I promise.” long pause.

“Promise?”

“Yes. I swear I won’t let anyone take you away again. Okay?”

They stood there locked in each other’s gaze, the air trembling between them. Behind them, the other three watched wordlessly, like fools trapped in someone else’s drama.

“…Fine,” Sukuna finally muttered, the resistance collapsing from his voice. His eyes looked even redder, glazed with fever. But the moment he turned away from Yuuji to face the others, the softness vanished, replaced instantly with the same lethal coldness from earlier.

“You three better not try anything,” Sukuna growled, raising the gun again. “Or this bullet goes through your hearts in seconds.”

All three nodded so fast it was almost comical. They seemed to understand the unspoken rule Yuuji had followed all along which is agreeing with Sukuna, and give him no reason to snap. The gun was still in his hand, after all.

“Okay,” Yuuji exhaled, clapping his hands once like he was corralling kindergarteners, “All of you go move and sit in the living room, Sukuna will watch you there. And I’ll go get the laptop.” He jabbed a finger toward Suguru. “And you. You better make sure whatever proof you show him is convincing. Because if it’s not, you’re dead today, Suguru.” He dragged a hand across his own throat in a cutting motion.

Suguru swallowed hard and nodded, throat bobbing visibly.

------------------------

Yuuji had already taken Satoru’s laptop and placed it on the low glass table, and now the five of them sat in the living room, facing each other like two rival groups forced into a temporary truce. Uraume and Suguru occupied the long white sofa, next to them was Satoru, sitting in a small sofa near the corner of the room. Their figures framed by the clean lines of Satoru’s ridiculously luxurious penthouse, while Yuuji sat beside Sukuna, close enough that their knees almost touched.  The space around them felt too still, too pristine for the tension simmering between everyone.

Satoru’s living room was enormous and overwhelmingly white. White walls, white marble floors, a soft white rug under their feet, all lit by gentle recessed lighting that made the space feel both expensive and impersonal. It was warm enough, but somehow cold like a showroom someone occasionally lived in, rather than a home. To their right stretched an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass leading to a balcony that overlooked Tokyo’s skyline, city lights reflecting off the rain still clinging to the glass panes.

Beyond the balcony, another room was visible through slightly parted curtains. It’s a guest room connected directly to the living room, its door standing ajar beside the massive window. Behind them is the open-concept kitchen lay quiet, all sleek black counters and polished stainless steel appliances, spotless and clearly rarely used. Next to it, another full-length window revealed the glow of the private heated pool on the second balcony, steam curling gently upward into the cold air. Between the kitchen and living room rose the floating staircase—glass steps, dark steel frame—leading up to Satoru’s private second floor, where his bedroom and study were hidden away.

Everything felt too clean, too untouched, except for the five bodies now filling the room with tension. Sukuna’s hair was damp with sweat, his expression hollow, his posture tired. He sat leaning slightly to Yuuji, fingers loosely intertwined on his knees, trying to breathe normally as he tried to ground himself watching who looked like his enemy.

Yuuji stayed beside him like a guard. He looked worried, restless, protective in an instinctive way he couldn’t hide. Across from them, Uraume sat rigid, spine straight as a blade, while Suguru sprawled more casually but with sharp eyes staring at the screen trying not to miss anything. Satoru, for once, didn’t look like the loud, smug idiot everyone knew, he looked serious, his jaw tight, attention fixed entirely on the boy beside Yuuji and sometimes glancing at the screen where Suguru’s works. No one spoke. Rain tapped softly against the balcony glass. The air felt thick, heavy with everything unspoken.

Sukuna still gripped the gun tightly, knuckles pale against the metal. His posture was rigid, every muscle pulled taut as if he were ready to spring at the slightest provocation. Yet his eyelids kept drooping. Slow, heavy blinks he tried to fight through sheer stubbornness. Sweat rolled down from his temple in thick beads, tracing sharp lines along his cheek before dripping onto the dark fabric of the jacket Yuuji had thrown over his shoulders. A jacket that definitely wasn’t his. The sleeves were too long, the color too bright, the fit too loose. But Sukuna didn’t notice.

Yuuji sat pressed against him now, as if proximity could anchor Sukuna in place and keep him from unraveling. He kept casting quick glances at Sukuna’s profile—at the flushed skin, the glassy eyes, the way Sukuna’s breath came out too warm and too shallow. And he hated how helpless it made him feel. He had grabbed the first jacket he could find in Satoru’s closet before and slipped it around Sukuna’s shoulders while murmuring something vague about not wanting him to freeze. Sukuna didn’t argue. Whether it was because he believed Yuuji or because his brain was too fogged to question it. Yuuji wasn’t sure.

The apartment was painfully silent. The only movement in the entire room came from Suguru’s fingers tapping rapidly across Satoru’s keyboard—click, click, click, each keystroke echoing in the cavernous, white space. It was the only sound grounding them in the present.

Still, no one spoke.

The air felt heavy enough to crush the lungs.

Sukuna inhaled slowly, shakily, the sound barely audible but still enough to break the silence. His fingers tightened around the gun again, reminding everyone—especially Suguru—that his patience was thinning, and his trust was nonexistent.

Yuuji reached out, very quietly, resting the side of his knee against Sukuna’s in a subtle reminder that I’m here.

And just as Suguru pressed enter and another file loaded on the screen, the light from the laptop reflected across his eyes.

It had been nearly ten minutes of Sukuna’s patience wearing itself thin to threads. His heel tapped restlessly against the floor and his fingers twitched around the grip of the gun as though every second of stillness felt like a trap closing around him. Then, with a sudden exhale of frustration, he jerked forward in his seat and grabbed Yuuji’s wrist.

“If this is just a waste of time, we're leaving.” His voice was hoarse, sharpened by paranoia and fever. He was already pulling Yuuji up with him, ready to drag him away before anyone could try stopping them.

But Suguru reacted faster than anyone expected, hand snapping up in a quick halting gesture.
“Hey—wait, wait, it’s done. Look! It finally connected.”

The urgency in his tone cut through the tension enough to make Sukuna hesitate. His grip on Yuuji didn’t loosen, but he stopped halfway to standing, brows pulled together as he glanced toward the screen.

On the laptop, several windows flickered to life, a live surveillance feed from different angles of a building corridor, an elevator, a nurses’ station. But the largest screen, the one dominating the center, showed a spacious VVIP hospital suite. White walls, large windows, a single patient bed, machines blinking with soft rhythmic lights.

Suguru quickly rotated the laptop so it faced Yuuji and Sukuna directly, stepping back only when he was sure the angle was perfect, “I hacked into the CCTV system of the hospital in America,” he explained, voice low but firm, “You might not know this, Sukuna—but your grandmother was admitted a few weeks ago. Only her doctor and Kenny are allowed inside her room.”

The name alone made Sukuna’s grip on the gun jerk, his expression twisting with a sudden flare of instinctive anger. But Suguru kept going, choosing his words carefully.

“We suspected Kenny would try something. So we’ve been monitoring your grandmother room nonstop.” He leaned closer and pointed at the live feed. “Look. Look closely at the man standing next to her bed. That—right there—is Kenjaku.”

The figure was unmistakable even through the faint static of the feed. The posture, the presence, the stillness—it was all wrong in a way that made Yuuji feel cold. And Sukuna stared like he couldn’t decide whether to believe his own eyes.

“And I’m right here,” Suguru continued, lifting both hands slightly as if presenting himself. “So that alone proves I’m not him. There’s no way I could be in two places at once.”

Uraume and Satoru, unable to restrain their curiosity any longer, rose from the sofa and stepped closer, peering at the feed with narrowed eyes. Even Satoru’s usual arrogance faded into something heavier, something more unsettled. Satoru watched the screen, but his thoughts drifted far from the blurry hospital feed. He kept glancing at Suguru, at the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he frowned in concentration—yet tonight they felt strangely foreign. All these years of being inseparable, going through school together, sharing stupid secrets, sharing meals, sharing silence, sharing their feelings—yet Suguru had a twin brother he never once mentioned. Not even accidentally. Not even slipped in during their nights or those 3 a.m. conversations when they usually overshare. Satoru realized with a strange, stinging clarity that the people closest to him carried entire histories he was never allowed to see. Suguru had a twin. Yuuji had a twin. And Satoru—who thought he knew everything, who always acted like nothing could surprise him—was suddenly the one left out of the loop.

He wasn’t angry, but something like a small, quiet ache formed under his ribs. Maybe because he always thought his friendships were built on full transparency, on that unspoken boyish trust they’d never questioned. Maybe because he always bragged about being the one who noticed the smallest details, the one who joked that nothing ever slipped past him. Yet here he was, blindsided twice in weeks. Suguru, who he thought he understood down to his bones, apparently carried a whole piece of himself Satoru had never touched. And Yuuji—bright, loud, open-hearted Yuuji—also had a shadow he’d never talked about. Two of the people Satoru considered closest to him, both hiding siblings as if that truth was never meant to reach him. Maybe it was stupid, but the thought left a quiet ache in his chest. 

Suguru's voice startled Satoru from his reverie, “That’s why I pushed Uraume to tell you everything sooner,” Suguru said, his voice tightening, “Because look at her. Look at your grandmother’s condition. Kenny is close to taking full control of Ryoumen. It’s worse than we expected.”

Yuuji didn’t say anything and he watched Sukuna instead. He watched the way Sukuna’s brows furrowed again and again, eyes flicking rapidly between the screen and Suguru, as though trying to catch the slightest inconsistency. As though every instinct in him screamed that this had to be a trick, yet what he watched in front of him tonight was too real, too impossible to fake in the moment.

Silence settled over the living room again. Everyone had returned to their seats, but the air felt different now, as if the walls themselves were waiting to hear what Sukuna would decide. The laptop remained open in the center of the table, its cold light casting pale reflections on the glass surface.

Sukuna’s breathing was shallow and uneven. His fingers tightened around the gun in his hand—tighter. Yuuji noticed instantly. Despite everything they’d gone through, despite the years apart, Yuuji still read Sukuna as if he’d never forgotten how.

Without hesitating, Yuuji reached out. His hand brushed gently, warm against Sukuna’s cold grip, “It's okay, Kuna,” he whispered—soft and careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile resolve hanging in the air.

Sukuna’s eyes flicked downward at the touch. He stared at their hands for a moment, expression tight and unreadable, before slowly lifting his gaze to meet Yuuji’s face. There was something raw in his expression, something vulnerable he had worked years to bury. It was as though he was searching Yuuji’s eyes for an anchor, for proof that choosing this path wouldn’t destroy whatever thread still tied them together.

His eyes were red—not the violent, furious kind, but the kind that came from exhaustion that ran deep, from emotions he had no strength to voice, from fever burning under his skin. No one could tell which one was responsible, and Sukuna wasn’t going to say a word about it.

Seconds stretched. Maybe ten, maybe twenty. No one dared move. Finally, Sukuna exhaled shakily and lifted his head.

He looked at Suguru first, then he turned to Uraume, unreadable. Then, as if acknowledging an unavoidable truth, he leaned forward and placed the pistol on the table beside the laptop. The metallic clink echoed through the room and made everyone stiffen for a split second.

“Alright,” he said quietly. His voice was low, hoarse, but controlled. Like he was forcing the fear and doubt down his throat. His gaze swept over all three of them again before settling, heavy and unwavering, “Now talk.”

Uraume adjusted his posture, leaning slightly forward as if trying to ease the tension knotting the air between them. His eyes met Sukuna’s, “We will…” Uraume began, but paused briefly before continuing, “A few months after you left the Ryōmen, someone contacted me.”

He cast a quick glance toward Suguru. Suguru responded with a lazy flick of his hand, a silent gesture that openly admitted, Yes, that ‘someone’ was me. With that confirmation, Uraume sighed lightly, shifting his attention back to Sukuna.

“At first, I didn’t believe him,” Uraume continued. “I didn’t want to meet him either. But even after I cut ties with the clan and left entirely, this man kept following me around” Uraume’s expression twisted in mild irritation at the memory. “In the end, I gave up resisting. I needed an ally to search for you anyway, and so… I decided to meet him.”

Suguru rolled his eyes, unable to contain himself as he cut in, “Oh, come on, Uraume. You’re dragging it out too dramatically. The point is, we’re going to destroy the Ryōmen clan, and we need your help. You’re the only legitimate heir.”

Uraume shot him a sharp glare and smacked the back of his head with an audible thwack. Suguru hissed, rubbing the spot while muttering in annoyance, “I was just summarizing your life story, okay?”

Sukuna didn’t react to their bickering. His eyes narrowed, sharp and distrustful, cutting through their explanation with ice-cold analysis. He leaned back slightly, gaze flicking between them as if trying to pierce through whatever mask they might be wearing.

“'We,’ huh?” Sukuna said slowly, voice low and guarded. “And who exactly does ‘we’ include? Is it just you two—” his eyes moved from Suguru to Uraume, “—or is there someone else you haven’t mentioned?”

His suspicion was palpable. Every word he spoke was dipped in caution, as if he expected a trap to spring at any moment. Even now, with evidence laid out in front of him, Sukuna’s instinct was to search for the seam, the crack, the lie hidden between their sentences. The slightest shift in their expressions, the faintest hesitation, could send him walking out the door.

“Uraume, me, and my team,” Suguru said, his tone suddenly shifting into something far more serious. “And no, I’m not stupid enough to tell you who they are before you actually agree to join us. I’m reckless, sure, but I’m not that reckless.”

Then—too predictably—he ruined his own seriousness with a crooked grin, “Oh, and Yuuji. He joined our little rebellion a few hours ago.”

Sukuna’s reaction was instantaneous.

His head snapped toward Yuuji so fast that Yuuji actually flinched, raising both hands defensively as if expecting Sukuna’s spine to crack from the sheer speed. The look Sukuna gave him was sharp, demanding answers with a stare that felt like a blade pressed against Yuuji’s throat. There was confusion there, and hurt too, a quiet flicker of betrayal that made Yuuji feel like someone had pressed a thumb onto a bruise he’d been trying to hide.

Yuuji winced and offered a weak, trembling laugh, “Okay—okay, listen,” he said quickly, palms still raised, “Sukuna, you really need to hear Uraume’s version because it actually makes more sense. Because this guy Suguru has a way of making everything sound stupidly worse even when it isn’t.”

“Hey—” Suguru muttered, offended.

Yuuji ignored him completely, leaning forward, trying to soften the storm rapidly forming behind Sukuna’s red, fever-glazed eyes.

“Listen to me,” Yuuji said, voice dropping, gentle but firm. “I joined because I thought—no, I knew—this would be good for you. For your future. Because someone has to do something about this.” His throat tightened, and the last words came out quieter, heavy with wounds even he rarely talked about. “I want them gone too. I want to destroy them just as much as you do.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched in his lap. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders faltered but it didn’t disappear. He didn’t speak, didn’t scold, didn’t lash out. He just stared at Yuuji with something raw in his eyes, something torn between distrust and the desperate hope that—for once—someone had chosen him, not the clan, not the tradition, not the bloodline.

When Yuuji finished, Sukuna slowly turned his gaze back to Uraume. Demanding the rest of the truth.

Uraume straightened his posture again, his expression calming into something steady and resolute before he began speaking, “The reasons we’re doing this, they’re all different,” he said quietly. “For me personally, I’m disgusted by what Kenjaku and your grandmother has turned the clan into. The Ryoumen clan wasn’t always like this before. It wasn’t always this cruel, this corrupted, this… monstrous.” His voice tightened slightly, hands curling on his lap. “I want every person responsible for staining its name to be destroyed. Every last one of them.”

Suguru nodded in agreement beside them, leaning forward with elbows on his knees as if urging Sukuna to listen, “My team and I feel the same. Though there’s more of it, overall we have the same goal, which is to dismantle the Ryoumen.”

Uraume continued, eyes never leaving Sukuna’s face, “And how we plan to execute this… is by asking for your help. You are the only one left who can take control of the Ryōmen clan if something happens to your grandmother. And from what we’ve seen”—Uraume motioned slightly toward the live CCTV showing Kenjaku near the hospital bed—“that man clearly has his own plans for her.”

Sukuna froze, a shallow breath slipping past his lips. His voice came out hoarse, almost breaking, “So you want me to go back there, Uraume?”

It wasn’t just disbelief and fear that Sukuna felt. It was alsi a betrayal.

“Yes,” Suguru said immediately, confident, decisive.

But Uraume and Yuuji snapped at the exact same time—

“No.”

The argument exploded so fast Sukuna barely had time to track who was saying what. Suguru and Uraume were already snapping at each other, their voices overlapping, “He doesn’t need to go back now, not physically—there are legal routes, power of attorney, the shares he still owns in—” while Suguru cut in sharply, “That won’t be enough. He needs to show his face, take back authority, remove Kenjaku directly—”

And then Yuuji jumped in too, voice rising with a desperation that made the room feel even smaller, “Suguru, shut up! He’s not going back there!”

Satoru pressed a hand to his temple, Uraume gesturing wildly, Suguru pointing at the laptop screen, Yuuji nearly on his feet and through it all, Sukuna felt the world tilting. His head throbbed violently, each heartbeat pulsing behind his eyes like a mallet striking bone.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers pressing hard into his throbbing temples, trying to breathe past the dizziness. For a moment, he thought he might faint.

Then finally, he spoke, voice rough and low, “...And what do I get,” Sukuna said slowly, “if I agree to help whatever this plan is? What do I get?”

All three froze mid-argument.

Suguru was the first to answer, straightening with a confident shrug, “Isn’t it obvious? You get full control of the Ryoumen clan. You get to your rightful position as the one and only Heir.”

Sukuna let out a derisive, humorless snort, “I don’t want any of that. You can have it if you want. Honestly, Kenjaku can take it for all I care.” He looked away, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and disgust, “I don’t really care.”

Across from him, Satoru couldn’t stop the small, proud smirk pulling at his lips. As if something about Sukuna rejecting all that power, all that legacy, made Satoru stupidly proud and happy.

But then Uraume spoke, louder this time, “You will be free.” His voice was soft, but it's clear, like a promise. Everyone’s attention snapped toward him.

Uraume held Sukuna’s gaze, steady and unwavering, “You will be free, Sukuna. Truly free. You will finally be able to live whatever life you choose. No clan. No bloodline. No rules. Nothing.”

The words hung in the air, quiet but heavy—so heavy they seemed to press on Sukuna’s ribs.

A future he had never even dared to imagine suddenly placed on the table. A future he had always been too trapped to believe could exist. And for the first time since the argument began, Sukuna’s expression shifted, something raw flickering in his fever-bright eyes.

Sukuna let out a small, bitter smile, “So, What? Are you saying that I have to go back? Just to earn my freedom?”

Uraume’s shoulders tightened, the faintest flicker of guilt passing over his face, “Forgive me, Sukuna-sama… but yes. Not right now, no. We can delay it as long as possible. We can prepare. We can make sure the clan is already weakened when you return.” His voice softened, almost pleading, “But when the time comes, you must go back to claim your authority. And once we defeat every rotten member of that clan, once the clan goes back to what it used to be” Uraume swallowed, “...you may leave. You may walk away forever.”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened, the fragile hope from earlier dying as fast as it appeared. He leaned back slightly, jaw clenching.

“You think I’m stupid?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “If I walk away, who leads the clan then?”

Uraume opened his mouth, then hesitated—just a second—but Sukuna caught it. His gaze flicked, instinctively, toward Yuuji. Only for a heartbeat. Barely a twitch.

But that was enough for Sukuna to shot to his feet so fast the sofa creaked, fever or exhaustion forgotten. The pistol was in his hand again before anyone could blink, the barrel aimed directly at Uraume’s forehead.

His voice was a low, lethal snarl, “Touch Yuuji—You even think about using him— I swear I will kill you, Uraume.”

The room froze. The air stopped moving.

Even Yuuji inhaled sharply, his hand halfway lifted in surprise. Uraume didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Damn, dude — relax!” Suguru blurted out, raising both hands as if he could physically push the tension back into place. He clearly hadn’t expected the conversation to explode that fast.

“Hey, Sukuna. It’s okay. We can think about that later, okay?” Yuuji stepped closer, like approaching a wounded animal that trusted only him. His fingers curled around Sukuna’s forearm, warm and steady, coaxing the raised gun down inch by inch. Sukuna didn’t fully relent, but he allowed it, muscles trembling under Yuuji’s touch.

“What matters is,” Yuuji continued, swallowing hard, “with this plan, you can finally be free. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.”

But Sukuna snapped, “Stop it! STOP saying it’s okay because NONE of this is okay, Yuuji!” His voice cracked, “Can’t you, for once, stop being so damn naïve?!”

Yuuji flinched as if struck, but didn’t step back. His grip only tightened, “I’m not being naïve,” he insisted, “I’m trying to protect you. I don’t— I don’t want you going through this alone anymore. I want you to live with me again. I want you to live your life the way you want it. I want you to be free from that clan, Sukuna.”

For a heartbeat, Sukuna froze. Something flickered in his expression before twisting into something uglier, “I can’t!” His voice dropped and shaking, “Like it or not. They’ll haunt me forever, Yuuji. No matter what we do to destroy them, no matter how clean this plan sounds, everything they did to me is already carved into me. It’s inside my bones. Inside my head. It’s not leaving. All of this? It doesn't matter. That's why I can’t go back to what I used to be. To live a normal life? I can't! I'm broken! I can't fucking go back, do you understand?!!"

“That’s EXACTLY why!” Yuuji’s voice broke, not loud but sharp and loud enough to startle Sukuna, “That’s why we have to do this! Don’t you understand?! You can’t keep running like this, Sukuna. And we can't keep letting them do whatever they want to you or anyone else!”

Yuuji dragged in a breath, chest tight, eyes glossing with something he refused to let fall, “If you won’t do it… then fine.” He stepped closer, face barely a foot from Sukuna’s, trembling but unyielding, “I’ll take your place. We look just the same, right? Uraume can teach me everything about the clan. I can do it. I will do it. For you.”

His voice cracked again, softer this time, breaking open at the seam. “Please, Sukuna… if you don’t want to do this, then at least—at least let me do it, let me help you. Please...” By the final word, Yuuji’s desperation wasn’t just audible; it radiated off him in palpable waves.

Sukuna’s glare cut straight through Yuuji, sharp enough to draw blood if it had been a blade. His lips trembled, barely holding shape, and his eyes shimmered with a thin, burning sheen of tears that he refused to let fall. The fragile tightness in his face made it painfully clear that he was seconds from breaking. And then Sukuna suddenly whipped around and hurled the pistol at the wall with such force that the sound ricocheted through the apartment like a gunshot. Everyone in the room jolted, even Satoru, who’d been leaning back with forced calm. The crash of metal against drywall was followed by Sukuna’s harsh footsteps as he turned away from Yuuji, just barely two steps away from where Yuuji stands. Sukuna was having a mental breakdown. He stomped, furious. He clawed both hands into his hair, gripping tight as if he wanted to tear the frustration straight out of his skull. His breath came fast, too fast, uneven, and he kept muttering under his breath—broken repetitions that tumbled out like a failing engine, “You don’t understand, Yuuji… you don’t understand… you’re not listening to me… you never listen to me… none of you ever listen…”

Panic flooded Yuuji instantly as he watched his brother on the verge of hyperventilating, “Sukuna—hey, hey—stop—” He rushed forward and caught his brother before he could spiral any further, guiding him, almost dragging him, back toward the couch. He forced Sukuna to sit, crouching in front of him, holding both of his shoulders with warm, steady palms that tried to anchor him to the present.

Yuuji spoke softly, his voice trembling but gentle, as though he feared even his words might shatter Sukuna if they were too loud, “Hey. Sukuna. Look at me. It’s okay—just breathe. Follow me, breathe…slowly..,” He swallowed hard, guilt pinching his brows together. He rubs Sukuna’s back and shoulder up and down slowly. "Yes..like that...good..."

And when Sukuna was breathing better, he continued, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t understand everything you feel. I’m sorry I haven’t been listening to you all this time.” His thumbs rubbed small circles into Sukuna’s shoulders and hands, grounding him, “But I’m going to be okay. You believe that, right? I’m your big brother—I’m strong, remember? I can protect you. And everyone in this team? They’ll protect me too. We are going to protect each other. You are not alone in this Sukuna. Okay? We will be okay. I promise. Everything’s gonna be alright.”

He leaned closer, his voice softening even more. “So, let me do my job as your big brother, okay? Please. We need to do this. I need to do this—for you. For us.”

Slowly, Sukuna lifted his gaze to meet Yuuji’s. Focusing on his brother in front of him. His eyes were wet, the rims bright red, lashes clumped slightly from the tears he refused to shed. His whole face looked battered by emotion. He looked exhausted, overwhelmed, so heartbreakingly vulnerable that it twisted something deep in Yuuji’s chest. 

For a moment, Yuuji no longer saw the Sukuna who snapped at him in the corridors, who shouted at him in class, who carried years of trauma and anger like a second spine. He saw his little brother, the tiny little boy with messy red hair and wide pink eyes, the boy who once cried uncontrollably because he dropped his favorite blueberry ice cream onto Yuuji’s brand-new sneakers. The boy who apologized again and again with trembling hands because he didn’t want to trouble his brother. The little brother Yuuji wanted to protect long before the world ever tried to take him away.

His Sukuna.
His precious little brother Sukuna.

“Okay… but—” Sukuna’s voice didn’t rise so much, dropping into a quiet, resigned rasp that tugged the whole room taut. His nod was small, almost imperceptible. He finally agreed. 

Yuuji didn’t rush him. He stayed close, giving Sukuna space. Sukuna inhaled shakily, bracing himself, gathering strength the way someone gathers themselves before ripping open an old wound, “…but I want to meet them all.”

His eyes lifted, heavy but burning with something sharp, “I want to meet all of them. Everyone involved in this plan. I want to see their faces. I want to know who’s standing behind this. I need to know who to trust.”

His gaze slid to Uraume first, cold and direct, then to Suguru, lingering long enough that both of them shifted slightly in their seats.

Yuuji jumped in right away, nodding fast, eager to keep Sukuna calm. “Yes. Yeah, of course. We should meet them all.” He turned to Uraume and Suguru for support, eyebrows lifted like, Back me up, now.

Both of them straightened instantly, almost tripping over each other in their eagerness to agree.

“Yes, absolutely,” Suguru nodded hard.

“Obviously,” Uraume added at the exact same time.

Suguru added again, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, “I’ll arrange the time and place. Maybe tomorrow? There are a few things I need to talk to the two of you about as well.”

Yuuji nodded, the tension in his shoulders softening just a little, “Okay,” he said gently, before checking Sukuna’s expression. Sukuna gave a small nod in return. A tired one, but sincere. He was worn out, feverish, emotionally frayed at every edge. But that alone was enough for Yuuji to breathe easier.

For a moment, the room quieted again. Everyone sat in it, the weight of the day sinking into the air like humidity before more rain. Then Uraume inhaled softly and straightened in his seat, “There’s actually… one more thing,” he said.

Sukuna’s head lifted. Yuuji turned as well, eyes narrowing with caution. Even Satoru, who’d been hovering near the edge of the farther sofa in the room as if hoping this meeting would wrap itself up, paused with visible reluctance.

All eyes were on Uraume.

Uraume looked directly at Sukuna, gaze steady, “You can’t go back to your apartment.”

Sukuna blinked once. Again. His jaw twitched, a flicker of confusion breaking through the exhaustion. Then he let out a tiny breath of laughter.

He leaned back, ran a trembling hand through his hair, and exhaled through his nose, long and shaky. When he spoke, his voice barely rose above a whisper, “Why?”

Uraume folded his hands on his lap, choosing his words carefully, “I didn’t want to tell you in this condition, but I don't want to keep secret from you again. So, last night, Geto and I found someone trying to breach the surveillance near your apartment. Someone was attempting to access the external security feeds. We think it’s no longer safe. They’ve started picking up traces of you.”

“Fuck.” The curse came out sharp and tired. Sukuna dragged his bangs back with one shaky hand, pushing them off his forehead as if the gesture could clear his head. But it didn’t, if anything, the frustration on his face only deepened. He lifted his gaze toward Uraume, then to Suguru, eyes sharp despite the feverish glaze.

He was wordlessly demanding more.

Suguru straightened a little, reading the cue, “Calm down. They won’t find you,” he assured, voice lower but steady. “My team has reinforced your disguise and your data trails. Your identity is intact and unreachable. We’ll monitor the breach for a few days, but you—” he looked directly at Sukuna, “—need a new place to stay.”

Sukuna’s brows snapped together, “What do you mean by ‘reinforced my disguise’? Are you saying—” His voice rose slightly, strained and incredulous. “—that you’ve all been working behind my back this whole time? While I thought I was hiding on my own, Kenjaku has actually been tracking me? Trying to locate me? And you and your team are helping me? All this time?” His voice cracked with disbelief, the betrayal hitting harder than the revelation itself.

Uraume and Suguru didn’t speak. Their silence alone was an answer.

Sukuna’s posture collapsed inward. He was still sitting, but his body looked like it was folding under invisible weight. His elbows braced against his knees, both hands buried in his hair—fingers gripping hard, combing through in restless, frantic motions. His head hung low, eyes hidden behind messy bangs as he tried to drag oxygen into his lungs. He looked frustrated and lost.

Uraume finally broke the silence, voice softer this time, “Geto and I are already looking for a new apartment. Somewhere secure. Somewhere only we know. Until then, it’s safer if we move you around, hotel to hotel, so your trail doesn’t settle anywhere.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. He just exhaled shakily through his nose, fingers still dragging through his hair, desperately trying to hold himself together as the ground shifted again beneath him.

Suguru, who had been sitting beside Uraume and directly across from Yuuji, exhaled slowly while shaking his head. His expression tightened with concern as he leaned forward a little, “I’m actually against that idea,” he admitted. “The risk is higher if Sukuna keeps moving from hotel to hotel. Too exposed. And there will be too many records and people.”

Sukuna scoffed under his breath, slumping back into the couch, “Not that it matters,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead, “I don’t have enough money to jump around hotels in the first place.”

Before the frustration could spiral again, Uraume stepped in calmly, “You don’t need to worry about the money,” he said, nodding toward Suguru, “You probably don’t know this yet, but Geto’s superior is quite influential. And more than capable of funding this.”

Sukuna blinked once, he didn’t even have the energy to argue anymore. He just nodded as if giving up on the idea of fighting anything tonight.

“He can stay with me.” Yuuji’s voice broke the room like a cracked plate. All eyes snapped toward him, especially Sukuna’s, who turned so fast his neck might have genuinely protested. His stare was sharp, furious, horrified, a silent: Are actually that stupid? Or Are you out of your mind?

“No.” Sukuna cut him off instantly, tone stone-cold. “That’s even more dangerous than hotel hopping.”

Suguru nodded firmly, “Sukuna’s right. You’re the first person they’ll monitor, Yuuji. The moment Sukuna disappeared, you were the obvious starting point for anyone trying to track him. Letting him stay with you is practically inviting them.”

Yuuji’s face fell, his first instinct being to protest but he finally accepted, didn’t want to bring more danger to his brother and said a silent,  “…okay,” shoulders sinking.

And then “Orrr, he can stay with me.” Satoru’s voice cut cleanly through the discussion, snapping everyone’s attention toward him as if he hadn’t been sitting there the whole time. All four of them turned toward him at once.

Posture relaxed like he wasn’t proposing something monumental and said, “You all know this already,” he continued. “This place is the safest place he could possibly stay. Even if someone finds out Sukuna’s here, nobody can touch him.” His grin widened, cocky and confident in that infuriating Satoru way, “Only an idiot would pick a fight with the sole heir of the Gojo clan.” A slow, arrogant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

His reasoning was solid. But beneath his easy tone, the selfish motive was obvious—Satoru wanted Sukuna close. But that didn’t make his point any less true. His penthouse was, without question, the safest hideout Sukuna could have. Everyone in the room knew it.

And for the first time in a while, the room collectively fell silent again all eyes drifting to Sukuna, waiting for his reaction. Even Uraume, who despised Gojo with every fiber of his being—had to admit he was right. Annoying, infuriatingly right.

Suguru was the first to nod in agreement, “I think he’s right,” Suguru said, exhaling, “The Gojo family’s residence isn’t something you can just waltz into. I’ve spent years trying to breach their internal systems and I’ve failed every single time. I doubt the Ryoumen clan will manage anything. Their tech team is embarrassingly bad.” The faint taunting in his voice made Satoru click his tongue but he didn’t argue.

Yuuji and Uraume still looked unconvinced, brows deeply furrowed. Uraume had a dozen complicated reasons behind that expression, but Yuuji—Yuuji shouldn’t have had any reason at all. And yet he did. Watching Satoru’s face, Yuuji could already guess exactly what was going on in that idiot’s head.

“Fine,” Sukuna finally said with a long, exhausted sigh. “A few days, right? Just until you find a permanent safe location?” His eyes narrowed sharply at Uraume and Suguru, a silent warning not to waste time or drag this out.

Satoru blinked, surprised. He had expected resistance, sarcasm, maybe even another shouting match. But not agreement this fast. Maybe Sukuna was simply too worn down to fight. Or maybe, Satoru hoped—it was something else. Either way, he silently thanked Uraume and Suguru. They had just made his life much, much easier.

“I don’t like this,” Yuuji admitted quietly, voicing the discomfort twisting in his chest. Satoru, who was sitting beside him on the other sofa at the corner of the room, gasped dramatically as if he’d been stabbed. “Hey—that hurts, Yuuji. What, you think I’m going to try something weird with your brother?”

Yuuji didn’t even answer. He just glared at him, lips puckered in annoyance.

“Relax, Yuuji,” Sukuna muttered, deadpan. “If he betrays us or tries anything, I’ll cut off his hand in his sleep. He hides a gun under the drawer next to his bed—he’s easy to deal with.”

Suguru burst out laughing at that, immediately earning a venomous look from Satoru.

“See?!” Satoru pointed at Yuuji with both hands. “I’m the one who should be worried here! Sukuna might kill me in my sleep, Yuuji! I’m the real victim in this situation!”

He said it in that ridiculous half-joking, half-dramatic tone of his— but somehow that made the tension in the room loosen, just a little.

“Yeah. You’d better be careful, Satoru. Because it’s not just Sukuna—I’ll kill you too if you try anything funny.” Yuuji warned him with a straight face.

Sukuna let out a quiet sigh, shifting the topic with a grumble. “Wait...and what about Yoru? My clothes? I still have a bunch of campus work in my room too.”

“I’ll bring everything here tomorrow,” Uraume replied immediately. “And don’t worry about Yoru. I’ll take care of her.”

“She hates you, Uraume.” Sukuna narrowed his eyes, lips pursed into a small pout, clearly rejecting the idea of Uraume taking care of his beloved cat.

Uraume simply raised his shoulders, as if to say there was nothing he could do about it. Swallowing all of his ego Sukuna then turned to Satoru again, his gaze somewhere between pleading and threatening, “Let Yoru stay here too, and I promise I won’t kill you in your sleep.”

“And why should I? Who even is this Yoru? Your lover?” Satoru asked, genuinely clueless, since neither Sukuna nor Uraume had bothered to clarify whether Yoru was a person or a cat.

“My cat,” Sukuna answered. His lips pushed forward ever so slightly, as if asking Satoru for permission was the single most humiliating thing he’d done all year.

But that just made Satoru burst into a wide grin, nodding eagerly, didn’t expect a kitten like Sukuna taking care of a cat. “Alright, alright. Bring your cat here. You can bring all your stuff too honestly, I still have a room for that. Don’t let that cute little head of yours worry about that.”

“Thank you.” Sukuna said it quietly under his breath. And everyone in the room was stunned at the sound of Sukuna actually thanking someone.

“You’re welcome,” Satoru replied with a soft smile—far too soft, like a schoolboy hopelessly smitten. Like Sukuna saying “thank you” was enough to send him floating straight into the seventh heaven.

Not long after, the soft chime of the intercom echoed through the living room, signaling a call or message from the receptionist downstairs for Satoru. A woman's voice filled the space, politely informing him that his food order had arrived in the lobby.

Earlier that evening, before everyone arrived and turned his apartment into a battlefield of emotions, Satoru had already ordered food. His fridge was practically empty because he rarely stayed home long enough to cook and Sukuna still needed to eat before taking his medication. It was supposed to be a quiet, simple plan: get the food, feed his feverish cute menace, and try not to make things worse. But then everyone showed up and chaos followed. What a day, he thinks.

Satoru stood up, the others rising with him like it was a cue for them to finally wrap things up. Uraume and Suguru moved as if they were preparing to leave as well, while Yuuji naturally fell into step behind Sukuna, as though he still had a hundred unspoken things he wanted to talk about.

Satoru walked toward the door and, for the first time in years, truly looked at Suguru—really met his eyes and said, “Would you accompany me downstairs to pick up the food, Suguru Geto? There are a lot of things I’d like to talk to you about.” He smiled, but it wasn't quite a smile. Suguru received the message beneath his expression and nodded stiffly, unsure yet willing.

But before the three of them stepped out and left the twins alone, Sukuna reached out and tugged lightly at the hem of Satoru’s shirt, “Lend me your clothes.”

Satoru blinked, glancing down at him because technically he already had lent Sukuna clothes, the loose shirt he was wearing now. Sukuna caught his look and clarified, “Different ones. I don’t like this. It’s too big. And wet.”

Satoru, who had been mildly irritated moments ago after dealing with the emotional weight of seeing Suguru and having to talk to him, immediately fell under Sukuna’s spell again. The irritation evaporated; the sight of Sukuna tugging on his shirt so cutely short-circuited his brain. Oh, Satoru would happily give him his entire wardrobe if Sukuna asked.

“Of course,” Satoru said instantly. “There are plenty in the closet, pick anything you want. Yuuji can help you. He knows where everything is. And I think my clothes suit you alright. A little big, yes, but looks alright to me, it’s cute you know.”

Sukuna dropped his hand immediately, frowning as if Satoru had just said something incredibly stupid and embarrassing. Yuuji couldn’t take it anymore, so he stepped forward, smacking Satoru lightly on the head, “Don’t tease him.”

Satoru grinned shamelessly at the light hit, “Hey, I’m serious! Everything I own would look good on him. Anything would look good on him, honestly.”

That earned him twin death glares—one from Sukuna and one from Yuuji. Even Uraume, standing at the doorway, shot him the same glare.

“We’ll be going, Sukuna-sama. I’ll contact you shortly and bring everything you need.” Uraume cut through Satoru’s nonsense before he could say anything worse, then stepped out. Suguru followed, giving a wide, almost awkward wave to the twins as if they were old friends. Satoru ushered him out, pushing lightly at his back to hurry him along, leaving the brothers alone in his apartment.

Once the door shut behind them, silence settled. Only Yuuji and Sukuna remained.

Sukuna walked over, picked up Satoru’s discarded gun from the floor, and placed it neatly on the kitchen counter. He looked like he was about to start cleaning the shattered vase and broken glass on the floor, but Yuuji’s voice stopped him.

“Leave it, Kuna. You’ll just hurt yourself.” When Sukuna stopped and looked at him, he continued, “Come on..I’ll help you find clothes that fit. Yours are soaked because of the fever.”

Yuuji braced himself for the expected rejection. But to his surprise, Sukuna didn’t argue. He lifted his gaze toward Yuuji, who was standing near the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him. And Sukuna hesitated only for a moment before walking toward his brother.

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Yuuji stared up at the ceiling of Satoru’s room, lying on his back beside Sukuna’s sleeping form. One arm was tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow, while the other rested stiffly at his side, his fingers moving awkwardly—hovering just behind Sukuna’s back, close but not quite touching. Sukuna had fallen asleep almost immediately after changing into clothes that actually fit him. He’d grumbled nonstop about the oversized pants until Yuuji finally discovered a pair of black shorts Satoru owned—something Yuuji never imagined Satoru would even keep in his wardrobe. It still looked bigger and longer on Sukuna, hanging just under his knee. Enough for Yuuji not to see the scars there.

By then, Sukuna had absolutely nothing left in him to complain with, and Yuuji could only smile at how familiar it all felt. How much he’d missed seeing his brother act exactly like this.

The fever had stripped away Sukuna’s usual guarded edges. He wasn’t the sharp-tongued, distant version of himself, just tired and quietly compliant like he used to when he got a fever when he was a kid. He’d let Yuuji help him out of his damp clothes, let him take his temperature with the small thermometer on the bedside table, even drink the glass of water Yuuji handed him without argument. And when Yuuji guided him to lie down, tucking him beneath Satoru’s soft blue blanket, Sukuna simply obeyed, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Yuuji watched him for a long moment, listening to the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing, the subtle warmth radiating from his fever. Only when he was sure Sukuna was sound asleep did Yuuji finally let himself lie down beside him. He shifted closer—just close enough that Sukuna wouldn’t be alone if he woke up disoriented. It was the only kind of support he could offer without crossing the line Sukuna still kept between them.

Yuuji lay there in the quiet of Satoru’s bedroom, the soft hum of rain against the balcony glass filling the space. The room on the second floor was exactly how he remembered it—wide, expensive, and arranged with that effortless neatness only Satoru could maintain. Once you stepped off the stairs, the king-sized bed dominated the center of the room, its dark sheets contrasting the warm lamplight. To the left, near the bathroom door, stood Satoru’s massive wardrobe: rows of tailored shirts, coats, shoes, watches, and accessories lined up with military precision. On the right side of the room sat a small bedside table, a low sofa pressed against the balcony windows, and a cluster of potted plants that softened the otherwise sleek interior. At the far end, Satoru’s study area rested beneath shelves filled with neatly arranged books.

The room wasn’t dark—just dim enough to feel safe. Yuuji had closed the balcony curtains earlier, letting the sound of the drizzle seep through while muting the harsher noises: the wind, the rumble and sudden crack of thunder that might wake Sukuna. He knew too well how lightly Sukuna slept. He also knew Sukuna couldn’t fall asleep in complete darkness, but too much brightness in the room would leave him with a headache the next morning. This warm, muted glow was the perfect compromise.

Yuuji’s gaze drifted back to the figure beside him. Sukuna’s breathing was slow, steady—finally restful. All day had been chaos. Fear, anger, confusion, exhaustion. Sukuna had been pushed far past what anyone should endure in one day. Yuuji wanted—no, needed—to talk to him. To explain. To apologize. To finally say all the things he had swallowed for years. But looking at Sukuna now, fragile in a way he never allowed himself to be, Yuuji knew he couldn’t burden him tonight.

Still… he couldn’t keep holding this alone.

Without realizing it, his vision blurred. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes until Sukuna’s silhouette went soft and shimmering. His throat tightened painfully, like he was swallowing sand. His fingers curled into a fist against the bedsheet, as if clenching something solid could anchor him, keep him from falling apart completely.

Yuuji exhaled shakily, trying to steady his breathing as he forced himself to calm down, at least enough to speak.

After sitting in silence for a while, letting his breathing settle, Yuuji slowly shifted his position. He turned onto his left side, now facing Sukuna who lay sleeping beside him on the left. His brother’s back was only inches away—lean, tense even in sleep, and warm, far too warm from the fever still clinging to him. That heat brushed against Yuuji’s face, and it stung something deep in his chest, tightening the guilt that never really left him.

He stared at that back for a long moment. Sukuna looked peaceful like this, though Yuuji knew better that Sukuna had never been given a life where true peace was possible. Yuuji swallowed, feeling emotion climb up his throat again, and finally forced himself to speak.

“Hey,” he whispered. Then a pause, because he needed that tiny moment to gather what little courage he still had, “...You sleeping?” No response. No shift in Sukuna’s breathing. Only the faint patter of the rain outside and the steady rise and fall of Sukuna’s chest.

Not like Yuuji expected an answer anyway, he knew better than anyone that it’s better like this. Yuuji knew he had to do this. If he didn’t say it now, he knew he might never be able to. Sukuna might be asleep but Yuuji knew his brother, how lightly he slept, how easily the smallest sound woke him when he wasn’t completely at ease. Yuuji hoped—just a little—that Sukuna could hear him. Even if only pieces of it.

That would make things easier. Less terrifying. He’d felt that way for a long time. And maybe Sukuna was too—maybe neither of them had ever been brave enough to confront the things that mattered, and that’s how they ended up like this. He didn’t have to face those sharp eyes directly. Didn’t have to watch Sukuna shut down or shut him out. Or worse, scream and hurt himself. Yuuji knew that doing this made him a coward. But it’s okay, let him be a coward for one last time. 

After several quiet seconds, Yuuji found his voice again, “There’s a lot I want to tell you, Kuna,” he murmured, his fingers fidgeting with the sheets near Sukuna’s side. He needed the distraction—something to keep his hands busy so his tears wouldn’t fall too quickly, so his voice wouldn’t break before the words even formed. 

“It feels like no amount of time would ever be enough for me to say everything I’ve held inside these past seven years. You need to know that living without you… it feels wrong. It feels strange. Like something was missing every single day.” He let out another breath, shaky and uneven.                                           

“There’s a lot I want to say, but I need to start by apologizing first...” The tears Yuuji’d been holding back swelled again, blurring his vision, “I’m sorry, Sukuna…”  And this time, they escaped—warm trails down his cheeks, soaking into his sleeve, his shirt, his skin.

With a voice that trembled despite his best effort, Yuuji forced himself to continue, “I’m so damn sorry for being a completely useless brother to you all this time.. I’m sorry for everything—every single thing.. I won’t make excuses, because nothing, nothing can justify how blind I was. How selfish. How unaware I was of what you were going through. I should have protected you. I should have been by your side.”

His breath hitched, “I’m sorry I never defended you when Grandpa or Dad yelled at you. I’m sorry that instead of standing with you, I pulled away. I’m sorry that I only ever thought about myself—that I never stopped to think how you felt or what you needed.”

Another tear fell, sliding off his jaw and onto the blanket between them, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when they forced you to leave. I’m sorry I let you go through all of that alone. I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry, S’kuna…” Yuuji no longer tried to hold anything in. The tears just kept falling, spilling faster than he could wipe them away. His whole body trembled as he cried. Uneven sobs tearing out of him as if years of regret were finally forcing their way through his ribs. He let it all happen, hoping that maybe releasing it would make the weight in his chest lighten. It didn’t.

When he finally wiped the mess of tears and snot from his face, he lifted his gaze again. Drawn back to Sukuna’s back in front of him. Somehow it looked small. Even though his little brother had grown into an adult, at that moment he looked exactly the same as he used to—the same small silhouette he used to chase around the house, the same kid he used to hold onto.

Once his breathing steadied, Yuuji forced himself to speak again. His voice was soft, raw, fraying at the edges, “If you can’t forgive me… that’s totally okay. I won’t ask you to. I don’t deserve that, anyway.” He swallowed hard, “But please… Please just let me stay by your side. Let me help you—whatever you need, however long it takes. Don’t tell me to leave. Don’t shut me out. Please don’t walk away from me again.”

He leaned forward, his fingers curling desperately in the sheets, “If someday—whenever that day comes—you can finally forgive me… then let’s live together again, hm? You and me. Under one roof. Let’s try to be a family again. I’d like us to be family again.”

His voice trembled as memories flooded him, “You were such a good, gentle little brother, Sukuna. And I missed you. I missed everything. Those seven years of your life—I don’t even know how you grew up. I don’t know if you still like blueberry milkshakes like you used to… or if you still hate sports the way you did. It feels wrong, you know—so wrong—that I don’t know anything about the ‘you’ who exists today. But I don't care. You’re still my brother. My precious little brother..” He exhaled shakily,  “Before we even understood the world, we had each other. I knew you before I even knew what living meant. So believe me, Sukuna… there is nothing—nothing in this world—I wouldn’t do for you.” His voice cracked completely, “So please…Please, let me make things right this time. Please…”

Yuuji was still hiccupping through his tears, oddly able to keep speaking even though his throat felt tight, clogged with saliva and sobs. His hand, which had been nervously fidgeting with the sheets earlier, finally stilled. And then slowly, carefully, he reached out and touched Sukuna’s back.

It was trembling. A small, uneven shake—proof that his little brother was crying too.

Yuuji’s breath caught, but he began to gently stroke up and down Sukuna’s back, a soft, steady motion meant to tell him without words that he was here. That nothing had to be faced alone anymore. His hand drifted to Sukuna’s right shoulder and stopped there, feeling the way it rose and fell with each suppressed sob. With his thumb, Yuuji brushed soothing circles into the tense muscle—quiet reassurance, coaxing comfort into the boy who had spent years with no one to comfort him.

“It’s okay,” Yuuji whispered, voice breaking but warm, “Cry if you need to. You’re safe now. Everything will be okay. You and I—we’re going to be okay. You’re not alone anymore, Sukuna. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. So, it’s alright... Let it out. It’s okay to cry. You’re human too. Let it out..."

Yuuji kept his hand on Sukuna's arm, rubbing circle, comforting. "Once you’re done crying, you’ll feel a little lighter. I promise. We’ll get through all of this together.” And Sukuna just kept sobbing for several minutes. He didn’t answer Yuuji, didn’t yell, didn’t lash out in anger. He just cried and cried. He finally let it out. Those quiet, raw, helpless tears he’d kept hidden for far too long.

Yuuji stayed right beside him, never pulling his hand away, rubbing his back and shoulder in the same gentle rhythm their mother used to do whenever Sukuna cried. Part of Yuuji wanted nothing more than to pull his brother into a tight embrace, to hold him the way he used to but he knew that would overwhelm him now, maybe even frighten him. So he held himself back, offering comfort in the only way Sukuna could accept at this moment.

And still, he didn’t stop soothing him. Not for a second.

Time passed, and eventually Yuuji felt Sukuna’s breathing settle again. Slow, steady and peaceful. He wasn’t crying anymore.

Once he was sure Sukuna had fallen back asleep, Yuuji pushed himself up carefully, moving gently out of the bed. He walked around and crouched down in front of Sukuna, watching his brother’s face in the soft, warm light.

A small smile tugged at Yuuji’s lips when he noticed the faint traces of dried tears staining the pillow beneath Sukuna’s cheek. Somehow it made his chest tighten and soften at the same time. For a moment he simply looked at him—at the face that mirrored his own yet felt like a completely different universe. So familiar, yet so distant, his precious little brother.

Yuuji reached out and brushed aside a few messy strands of Sukuna’s hair, his fingers moving carefully so as not to wake him. Then he checked his temperature—warm, but not dangerously so. Good. He tucked the blanket around Sukuna’s shoulders, making sure he was wrapped snugly and safe, before finally stepping away from the bed and quietly leaving the room.

There were still so many things they would have to face together. Including the letter from their mother—the one Yuuji had decided to keep hidden until the right moment. Though in truth, he hoped that moment would never come. He didn’t want Sukuna to know the truth behind his birth. Not if it would hurt him more. Yuuji believed he could carry that burden forever if he had to. Sukuna didn’t need to know… not unless there was no other choice.

And yet, he hated the idea of keeping secrets from his brother again.

But for now, none of that mattered.

What mattered was that tonight, at least, things were better. They had each other again. And they were going to be okay.

Yuuji quietly stepped out of the room and wiped the last trace of wetness from his cheeks before heading downstairs. He walked toward the living room with slow, measured steps, feeling the weight of the document he’d tucked under his shirt—the one he found hidden at the very bottom of Satoru’s wardrobe. He didn’t know what it meant yet, but he knew he needed to talk to Satoru about it tonight because there’s Sukuna name on top of it.

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Chapter Text

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Gojo Satoru couldn’t sleep the entire night.

After talking with Suguru, he had thought that sleep would come easier than it had in years. Because, well, he’s finally here, Suguru Geto. His besfriend. His first love.

He thought that maybe the familiar presence, the almost-normal moment between them would settle something restless inside his chest. But he had been wrong. If anything, seeing Suguru again only made sleep more elusive. He spent the night tossing and turning, changing positions again and again, staring at the ceiling, at the faint reflections of city lights bleeding through the curtains. Even when he forced his eyes shut, exhaustion clung to him without ever tipping into rest. His body was tired, but his mind refused to follow.

Suguru hadn’t stayed long. He barely said anything at all. He was in a hurry, said that he had to report back to his team, to inform them that Sukuna had agreed to listen, to consider joining their plan. His apology had been rushed, almost careless in how quickly it was spoken, as if it were something he had rehearsed but didn’t yet know how to mean properly. He left his phone number behind, fingers hesitating just a fraction of a second before letting go, and promised quietly that he would make time for Satoru. That he would explain everything later.

At first, Satoru didn't want to accept that. He had wanted more than a promise scribbled into the air and a number saved into his phone. He had wanted answers now, explanations now, closure now. But for some reason, tonight drained him in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Because thinking about what happened tonight already made his head ache, his chest felt heavy, and his thoughts circled endlessly, refusing to settle. Let alone thinking about Suguru Geto.

He let out a slow breath and stared up at the ceiling again.

Well—what did he expect?

He was the one who had stepped into this mess on his own accord. The one who opened his door. The one who offered his home.

Satoru honestly didn’t know what had gone through his head when he decided to involve himself in anything related to clan politics, especially when the clan in question was the Ryomen clan. He knew better than anyone that the Ryomen and the Gojo families had never been on good terms. Then again, the Gojo family didn’t truly have good relations with anyone at all. Maybe that was simply the price of being the strongest clan in Japan.

And if he really thought about it, if he truly chose to step into this mess, what could his clan actually do to stop him? What could his parents do? They couldn’t disown him. They couldn’t strip him of his name or erase his blood. He was their legitimate heir—their only successor. The Gojo family had never dared to truly control him in the first place. They had never even tried to restrain him, because deep down, they knew better to mess with him.

Satoru knew exactly how much power rested in his hands. Not just strength, but influence, immunity, authority that came simply from being Gojo Satoru. He had always ignored it, brushing it off, pretending it didn’t matter until now. Until the moment he finally understood what power really meant in their world, and what it could be used for if he stopped pretending otherwise.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Just thinking about all of it made him tired. Strangely enough, despite the exhaustion settling into his bones, there was a faint spark of excitement twisting in his chest. He didn’t like admitting it, but he knew exactly why it was there.

Earlier today, after Suguru had left in a hurry, Satoru had returned to his apartment expecting silence. Instead, he found Yuuji sitting at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, staring down at a thick folder spread open in front of him.

It was Sukuna’s file.

The one compiled by the private investigator Satoru had hired some time ago, back when curiosity and concern had quietly crossed a line. With a tired sigh, Satoru pulled out a chair and sat beside Yuuji. Without joking or teasing, he began to explain everything. Satoru explained how he had quietly paid someone to look into Sukuna’s background. He kept his tone casual, carefully leaving out one very specific detail—that he had been following Sukuna himself for the past week, keeping an eye on him from a distance.

Yuuji didn’t miss the implication though. He was visibly annoyed, crossing his arms as he listened, and by the time Satoru finished, Yuuji warned him flatly that if he ever did something like that again without telling him first, he would personally make sure every single one of Satoru’s sunglasses disappeared. The threat was half-joking, but the frustration behind it was real.

After that, the tension slowly eased, and the conversation drifted into something quieter, heavier. Yuuji talked about Sukuna, about his fear, about the anger, the distance that still existed between them despite everything that had happened that night. Satoru listened without interrupting.

And then, for the first time, Satoru spoke about Suguru Geto.

Not as a stranger he just met tonight, but as someone he had once trusted completely. His best friend. Someone who had known him before everything broke apart. He hadn’t told this story to anyone outside of Yuta and Shoko before. The words felt strange in his mouth, but once they started coming, it was hard to stop.

Yuuji didn’t comment much after that. He simply reached out and patted Satoru’s shoulder, then said that maybe earlier, he shouldn’t have stopped Satoru from punching Suguru.

For some reason, hearing that made something loosen in Satoru’s chest. A quiet relief settled in him. Yuuji wasn’t hurt by the secret. He wasn’t angry that Satoru had kept something like that to himself.

And honestly, Satoru realized that he had no right to expect that kind of anger anyway. He himself had felt a brief sting when he found out Yuuji had a twin brother—something so big, kept hidden for years. But watching Yuuji now, calm and understanding, Satoru finally understood something he had never really thought about before.

Maybe having secrets wasn’t such a terrible thing.

Not telling even your closest friend about something you wanted to keep to yourself didn’t automatically make you cruel or dishonest. It didn’t mean betrayal. People were allowed to have parts of themselves that stayed private. They were allowed to protect what hurt, what mattered, what they weren’t ready to share.

And realizing that, Satoru felt lighter than he had in a long time.

After that, Yuuji excused himself and went upstairs to sleep beside Sukuna in Satoru’s bedroom on the second floor. The food Satoru had ordered earlier remained untouched on the dining table, growing cold beneath its lids. He had imagined a quiet dinner with Sukuna once things settled down. He hadn’t expected the day to unravel the way it did, leaving emotions raw and plans abandoned.

And that was how Satoru ended up sleeping in the guest room downstairs, staring at the ceiling in the dark. There was no way he was going to wake Sukuna just to move him—especially not after everything the kid had been through.

Just thinking about Sukuna made Satoru’s heart beat faster, uncomfortably so. Bringing him home the night before, taking care of his fever through the long hours, calling in his private doctor without hesitation, watching the sharp, guarded edges of Sukuna slowly soften. It all stirred something inside Satoru that he couldn’t quite name. It wasn't a simple concern, and it wasn’t just curiosity either. It sat heavier than that, warmer, lingering in his chest long after the lights were off, refusing to let him rest.

Satoru had never been someone who fell easily for anyone. The only person who had ever made his heart race like this before was Suguru Geto. And yet, Suguru and Sukuna were two people who stood on completely opposite ends of the spectrum.

Suguru Geto was bright, expressive, and fond of doing stupid, ridiculous things alongside Satoru. That was why it had been so easy for them to grow close. Their personalities overlapped in many ways; they understood each other almost effortlessly, as if they spoke the same language without needing words. With Suguru, everything had felt natural, instinctive, uncomplicated. Sukuna, on the other hand, was the exact opposite of Satoru in nearly every way. Understanding him was difficult—never straightforward. Satoru had to watch him closely, read every expression, analyze every reaction just to grasp what Sukuna might be thinking or feeling.

Nothing about him came easily, and maybe that was exactly why Sukuna occupied Satoru’s thoughts so persistently.

After observing Sukuna over the past few weeks, Satoru had come to realize something unsettling: the version of Sukuna he’d been seeing all this time wasn’t the real one. He’d watched Sukuna interact with others, watched him focus intently on his assignments, watched the subtle shift in his behavior when he was around people he felt safe with. Sukuna lived behind layers—carefully constructed defenses built to survive.

And little by little, Satoru had managed to peel some of those layers away. What he found beneath only made him want to know more, to understand the person Sukuna truly was when he no longer needed to hide.

Satoru glanced at the digital clock standing beside the bedside lamp. 4:00 a.m. glowed back at him in cold numbers. With a quiet sigh, he shut his eyes, knowing he needed to force himself to sleep. If he didn’t, tomorrow would be unbearable. And yet, even as he tried to rest, Sukuna’s face lingered in his mind. Uninvited, refusing to let him go.

-----------------------

Satoru opened his eyes.

Sunlight immediately stabbed into them through the gaps between the gently swaying leaves, sharp enough to make him squint. For a moment, confusion washed over him. He didn’t remember falling asleep under a tree.

He lifted an arm to shield his eyes from the glare. As he moved, he felt the coarse brush of grass against his palm, cool and slightly damp. The sound of cicadas echoed loudly around him, filling the air in a way that felt almost overwhelming. A soft breeze passed by, stirring his hair, which was faintly damp with sweat. It carried the unmistakable scent of summer—warm earth, grass, and the familiar atmosphere of the schoolyard.

The backyard of his school.

Everything felt vivid now. Too vivid. Satoru slowly exhaled.

Ah. He was dreaming.

This dream again..the same one he hadn’t had in a long time. The one that always returned without warning, dragging him back to a memory he never truly managed to bury.

The day he last saw Suguru Geto.

“Satoru!!”

Suguru Geto’s voice echoed across the wide field. Several students turned to look in their direction, only to lose interest moments later, returning to whatever they had been doing as if this were something completely ordinary. It's just the two of them yelling each other’s names across the grounds like they always did.

Suguru came running toward him, waving Satoru’s sunglasses in the air as he did, a wide grin stretched across his face. It was so bright, so open, it felt like it outshone even the sunlight that made Satoru squint.

From where he was lying on the grass, Satoru watched him approach. Warmth immediately spread through his chest, slow and overwhelming all at once. He smiled back at Suguru and lifted his hand, waving in response.

“Ugh… I swear, if I have to watch this for one more second, I’m going to throw up.”

Shoko’s voice beside him made Satoru turn his head, though the wide smile on his face didn’t fade in the slightest.

That day marked exactly one month since he and Suguru Geto had officially labeled their relationship as that of a couple. For someone who had grown up isolated from the world, from ordinary connections and emotions, this feeling was almost too much to bear. The sheer, crushing happiness—so intense it bordered on painful—was something Satoru had never experienced before.

In the first few months after they met at this school, Satoru had nearly made Suguru Geto his enemy. Suguru Geto—the ordinary boy who had earned his scholarship purely through his exceptional intelligence—was always competing with him for the highest grades in class, always standing right beside his name on the ranking lists.

Shoko, who had been the only person willing to stay close to Satoru back then, had witnessed every stage of that rivalry. She had also been there to see how their relationship slowly changed. It all began with a group assignment they were forced to work on together, leaving Satoru with no choice but to tolerate Suguru Geto’s presence at his side almost until the semester came to an end.

Somewhere along the way, they grew closer.

They had been best friends for nearly two years now. Satoru felt like he knew Suguru as well as he knew himself. And those restless, overflowing feelings—so intense, so unfamiliar—wrapped themselves tightly around Satoru, who was barely fourteen, like the unmistakable rush of a teenager falling in love for the first time.

“Hey…”

Suguru had reached him by then. He leaned forward slightly, both hands braced on his knees, breathing a little hard as he looked at Satoru with that familiar, radiant smile. Sweat trickled down his temple, catching the light, while his slightly long hair swayed gently in the summer breeze.

Suguru Geto was beautiful.

“Hey,” Satoru replied, still staring at him. He shifted his position, pushing himself up to sit properly, his gaze never leaving Suguru—as if there was nothing in the world more captivating than the sheen of sweat at Suguru’s temple or the wide, unguarded smile on his face.

“Ah, alright. That’s my cue to leave,” Shoko said dryly.

She stood up and brushed the grass off her school skirt, then glanced at the two of them. “Bye, love birds. See you next week.” With that, Shoko turned and walked away, leaving Satoru and Suguru beneath the broad, leafy canopy of their favorite tree.

“Bye, Shoko,” Suguru called after her, lifting a hand in farewell.

Once Shoko’s back had faded into the distance, Satoru reached out and gently tugged on Suguru’s hand, pulling him down to sit beside him. Suguru followed the pull without resistance, allowing himself to be guided until he settled next to his lover.

They sat close—so close there was barely any space between them. Despite the heat, despite the way sweat clung to their skin in the oppressive summer air, neither of them made any move to pull away. The closeness felt natural, necessary.

“Why do you always forget to bring your sunglasses, huh? Idiot,” Suguru muttered as he handed them back to Satoru. He knew Satoru couldn’t survive under the blazing summer sun without them, his eyes were far too sensitive to the light. And yet, lately, Satoru kept leaving them behind.

“I did it on purpose,” Satoru said as he accepted the sunglasses, idly turning them over in his fingers before adding, “Because I like seeing you run toward me like that.”

He said it casually, as if it weren’t thfollowinge cheesiest, most embarrassing line he’d ever spoken.

Smiling with an effortless ease, as if the world belonged to just the two of them, Satoru turned his gaze toward Suguru beside him. Their arms brushed against each other, close enough that Satoru could see the faint flush blooming along Suguru’s neck.

“You didn’t forget our plans for tonight, did you?” he asked softly.

Suguru seemed to avoid Satoru’s gaze. He lay back on the grass, folding both arms beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. His eyes drifted upward,  the branches and leaves swaying gently above them, moving back and forth like waves upon the sea. “Of course I didn’t forget, Satoru,” he murmured.

The sound of summer cicadas filled the brief silence between them. After a moment, Satoru lay down as well, resting his head against Suguru’s chest. It was as if he wanted to listen to the steady rhythm of Suguru’s heartbeat—to see whether it sounded sweeter than the cicadas’ chorus. Of course, Satoru already knew the answer.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in comfort and quiet. Then Suguru reached for the book he had entrusted to Satoru earlier—before Satoru had asked him to retrieve the sunglasses he’d left behind in the classroom—and began to read. This time, the book was The Suitcase Kid. Satoru had no idea what the story was about, only that Suguru often grumbled while reading it. His brows would knit together, irritation flickering across his face as if offended by the plot, which Satoru was sure was nothing more than fiction and not worth getting so worked up over.

Still, this was their moment. Satoru’s favorite kind of moment when it was just the two of them. Suguru loved reading. No one knew how many hundreds of books he had gone through, and Satoru had somehow become the place where all of Suguru’s thoughts and opinions about those books landed. Not that Satoru minded. He liked it. In fact, it only made him fall for Suguru even more.

Suguru loved retelling the stories he read. Satoru would offer a few comments here and there, but mostly he just watched Suguru’s face, or listened to the cadence of Suguru’s voice as it flowed into his ears. Sometimes he would say, “Yeah, you’re right,” or “I agree with that,” and other times, when Suguru was venting his hatred toward a particular character or a frustrating ending, Satoru would chime in with an emphatic, “What an asshole.”

And Suguru would laugh—soft, genuine—and for Satoru, that sound alone was worth everything.

And now, Suguru let out a long, heavy sigh and snapped his book shut. The sound was sharp and decisive—an unmistakable sign that, any second now, Satoru would have to listen to Suguru vent about how much he despised Andy’s parents. Satoru didn’t even know who Andy was. It didn’t matter. He simply liked listening to Suguru talk. The chorus of summer cicadas slowly faded into the background, replaced by Suguru’s voice filling Satoru’s ears.

Satoru hummed quietly now and then, offering small reactions just to show that he was listening. The corner of his lips lifted into a soft smile as the summer breeze tousled his hair. Suguru noticed the mess almost immediately. Without thinking, he reached out, unwilling to let the wind have all the privilege of touching Satoru’s soft hair. He ran his fingers through it, gently combing and smoothing it back, brushing it away from Satoru’s face until Satoru could feel every single one of Suguru’s fingertips against his scalp. And all the while, Suguru continued talking—about Andy, about how miserable his life was, about how badly Suguru wished he could crawl into the pages of the book and punch every adult in it.

Satoru hadn’t dreamed about this day in a very long time—the day he last felt happiness so overwhelming it seemed his heart might burst, spilling flowers and butterflies into the air.

What Satoru never remembered was how warm and comfortable that summer afternoon had been. What stayed with him was the summer night instead—dark, cold, and hollow—the night when Suguru never appeared in front of him. The night Suguru broke their promise to meet, to go on a date together.

All Satoru remembered was the crushing weight in his chest as he waited for Suguru in front of the KFC in Shinjuku that night. Suguru never came. Even when morning arrived, Suguru still hadn’t shown himself.

Satoru couldn’t remember what he had done wrong. He couldn’t remember what had happened that afternoon that made Suguru decide Satoru was someone worth leaving behind. Satoru knew very well that Suguru had never explicitly confessed his feelings to him. But a month together—calling each other pet names, playing with each other’s hair, leaning against one another, hugging, holding hands, laughing together. Satoru thought it meant something. He thought Suguru thought so too.

But apparently, it hadn’t. Suguru left as if none of it mattered. As if Satoru himself didn’t matter at all.

Satoru opened his eyes. Suguru’s voice vanished, replaced by the noise of Shinjuku’s crowd. The lush trees that had shielded him from the blazing sun were gone, replaced by the restless, glowing chaos of Shinjuku at night.

The bright afternoon disappeared, swallowed by a night so dark it felt endless.

Satoru stood alone in front of the KFC in Shinjuku. His legs ached slightly, cramped from standing still for nearly three hours. He hadn’t moved. He was afraid that if he sat down or stepped aside, Suguru wouldn’t be able to see him. Afraid Suguru might pass him by. He let his tall frame remain rigid and visible in the middle of the street, standing out against the crowd—hoping, praying, that Suguru would come toward him with that wide smile, waving his hand and calling Satoru’s name from within the sea of people in Shinjuku.

But even as the clock slipped past midnight, Suguru still didn’t come.

Satoru’s phone kept vibrating in his hand, over and over again—but it was never Suguru. Just his parent’s number. Again and again, their calls breaking into the silence, nagging, intrusive. Satoru ignored them all. He didn’t care, not even when several guards began standing a short distance away from him. None of them dared approach after one of them caught Satoru’s sharp, warning glare—an unspoken command to leave him alone.

Time dragged on relentlessly. Eventually, his phone battery died, the screen going dark in his palm. He could no longer try to call Suguru—who had never answered any of his calls in the first place. Then, at the far end of the intersection, sunlight began to appear. Its pale glow crept between the buildings, slowly illuminating the city. Satoru could feel it as it pushed through the narrow gaps, spilling forward until it lit half of his face.

The light was blinding. It burned his eyes.

But it was nothing like yesterday afternoon—when he had woken to Suguru calling his name, smiling so brightly and beautifully it outshone the sun itself. Today, there was nothing left to shield him from the glare. No leafy trees casting their shade. No gentle summer breeze brushing through his hair. No cicadas humming in the background. No voice talking about Andy West. Not even his sunglasses.

Because all of that had disappeared along with Suguru.

Suguru Geto had taken every fragment of happiness Satoru had ever known and carried it away with him.

-----------------------

“Satoru…”

“Hey, Satoru…”

Satoru opened his eyes. His lips felt dry, as if he had just come through a long, unforgiving summer. The clock on the table read twenty-five minutes to six. He turned his head and caught the silhouette of Yuuji standing beyond his door.

Yuuji peeked his head inside, calling his name again in a hushed voice. Satoru squinted, taking in the sight of him fully dressed, clearly ready to head out somewhere.

“Hey, sorry for waking you up this early,” Yuuji said softly, pushing the door open when he realized Satoru was awake. “But Uraume just called me… He wants to drop off Sukuna’s belongings now, while it’s still early, so no one gets suspicious.”

“…Hmm,” Satoru murmured, sitting up and then getting out of bed to join him.

“Can you make breakfast for Sukuna?” Yuuji added. “If he wakes up, just tell him I’m getting his things.”

Satoru wasn’t sure why Yuuji was still whispering when he was already standing right in front of him, but he didn’t comment on it.

They walked toward the kitchen together, Yuuji trailing behind him and gesturing toward what he had already prepared. A bowl of blueberry pancake batter sat neatly on the counter. Satoru went straight to the fridge and grabbed a drink, half-ignoring Yuuji, who hovered nearby like an overworked wife about to leave the house with an utterly useless partner.

Okay—Satoru really was a little useless when it came to breakfast.

After downing a full glass of cold water, Satoru finally managed to speak. “You can handle it on your own, right?”

“Of course not,” Yuuji replied immediately. “I’ll need your help bringing everything up here later. But picking it up from Uraume? Yeah, I think I can do that alone. We can’t leave Sukuna by himself anyway.” Worry was written plainly across Yuuji’s face.

“Okay.” Satoru nodded, his gaze drifting to the kitchen island cluttered with pancake-making tools. Whisks, bowls, measuring cups—things he didn’t even remember owning. He found himself oddly impressed by Yuuji. The kid really did seem capable of everything. And strangely enough, Satoru didn’t mind it. He was even glad, in a way, that his kitchen was finally being put to proper use.

Most days, he lived off microwave meals. Sometimes instant ramen, if he was feeling generous with himself. It wasn’t that Satoru was completely hopeless—he just hated cleaning up afterward, so he rarely bothered to cook at all.

Yuuji still stood there, staring at him with clear distrust.

“Oh god, don’t look at me like that,” Satoru groaned. “I can handle this, okay? Just go.” He waved his hand in a dismissive shooing motion.

After giving him one last hesitant nod, Yuuji finally turned and left, leaving Satoru alone in the kitchen. Satoru let out a long breath—he’d lost count of how many times he’d sighed since yesterday. Then he picked up the bowl of batter and stirred it slowly, dipping the tip of his finger in to taste it.

He turned on the stove and began cooking the pancake batter Yuuji had prepared, focusing on the simple, almost meditative motions, hoping that he wouldn’t mess it up before Sukuna woke up.

Satoru stood in front of the stove, one hand gripping the spatula as he prepared to flip the batter. His hair was still slightly messy, evidence of a restless night spent tossing and turning without proper sleep. He watched the pancake as bubbles began to form on its surface—a clear sign it was ready to be flipped. And yet, his mind was far from focused.

The scent of blueberry pancakes filled the first floor of his apartment. Satoru wasn’t sure if the smell reached the second floor or not, but if it did, he hoped Sukuna would come down soon. Just having Sukuna nearby might help him forget the dream from last night, even if only for a moment.

He wanted—no, needed—to forget Suguru Geto. Since waking up, his thoughts had been spiraling, collecting questions, rehearsing words he might say if he ever truly sat down with Suguru and talked things through. Every possible conversation played out in his head, over and over again.

Satoru knew that even if they met, even if they finally talked, he wouldn’t be able to say everything he’d prepared. No matter what explanation Suguru gave, no matter how Satoru tried to face it, he wasn’t ready. He had waited his entire life for this moment—to see Suguru again, to ask why he left—but the weight of his own emotions still rendered him powerless.

The smell of something burning snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, fuck!”

Satoru hurriedly tried to flip the pancake, but it was already beyond saving—charred and ruined. In his panic, he grabbed the edge of the pan without thinking. The heat startled him, making him recoil and drop the spatula with a loud clatter against the floor.

“Fuck—fuck!”

Unsure what to deal with first, Satoru turned off the stove as smoke began to curl up from the pan. He quickly grabbed a cloth to protect his hand, picked up the pan, and moved it aside. There was no way he could serve something burnt to Sukuna—Yuuji would absolutely murder him later if he did.

Turning around to dispose of the morning’s disaster, he froze.

The pan, its burnt contents, and the spatula all slipped from his hands and hit the floor again—because Sukuna was there, standing on the other side of the kitchen island, watching him like a lost child.

Sukuna’s hair was slightly messy, his clothes fitted better than before—not oversized enough to hide his frame, leaving his neck exposed in a way Satoru was painfully aware of. He didn’t know how long Sukuna had been standing there. He hadn’t heard a single sound. Had Sukuna been that quiet, or had Satoru really been that lost in his own head?

“Damn it! You scared me!” Satoru clutched his chest, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Where’s Yuuji?” Sukuna asked.

“He went to meet Uraume,” Satoru replied, bending down to pick everything up. He carefully placed the hot pan and utensils on the far end of the counter, making sure they were well away from Sukuna. “He’s picking up all your things and bringing them here.”

After dealing with the burnt pan, Satoru straightened up and smiled at Sukuna. “How about we just order delivery for breakfast?”

Sukuna frowned. “If you knew you couldn’t cook, why did you bother doing all that in the first place?”

“Well,” Satoru scratched the back of his head sheepishly, “Yuuji actually prepared everything. I just… failed at the cooking part.” He gave an awkward grin, already imagining Yuuji scolding him later.

But to Satoru’s surprise, Sukuna stepped closer.

He walked around the kitchen island and stopped beside Satoru, standing in front of the remaining bowl of pancake batter Yuuji had made. His gaze lingered on the bowl, on the neatly prepared ingredients beside it. He stared longer than necessary, as if his mind was struggling to catch up with the sight in front of him. Yuuji had made this—for him. Blueberries floated dark and vivid in the pale batter. Blueberries. His favorite. The realization felt foreign, almost unreal, like something he wasn’t allowed to have.

“If you want to order delivery, go ahead,” Sukuna said calmly. “I’ll eat this.”

He stirred the batter with practiced movements, then picked up the pan Satoru had burned and carried it to the sink at the far end of the kitchen, beginning to wash it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Satoru froze where he stood, staring at Sukuna. Of course he would choose the pancakes Yuuji had made over takeout. Of course.

He reached up and scratched at his hair even though it didn’t itch, his eyes never leaving Sukuna. Sukuna had already finished washing the pan and was now turning on the stove, setting the heat carefully beneath the clean skillet. The movement was practiced, calm—so natural it almost didn’t seem real in Satoru’s kitchen.

Only when Sukuna glanced at him, spatula gripped in his hand—the very one Satoru had dropped earlier—did Satoru finally snap out of it. He stepped aside immediately, making space without a word so he wouldn’t get in Sukuna’s way.

Then he took a seat on one of the stools across the island, resting his chin in his hands, elbows planted on the counter, and watched Sukuna work. The smell of blueberry pancakes slowly filled the kitchen, warm and sweet, curling pleasantly through the air. Satoru inhaled deeply without realizing it.

God. This morning felt absurdly good. Almost perfect.

Watching Sukuna cook, standing there in his kitchen, using his stove, making breakfast for both of them—felt surreal. Like a dream Satoru was afraid to blink through. Just a few weeks ago, the two of them had been snapping at each other, trading sharp words and insults. And now—

Now this.

Satoru found himself thinking that if this was what his mornings would look like with Sukuna living here, he would do anything to keep it this way. Anything at all, if it meant Sukuna would stay. Stay here. With him.  Forever, if Satoru were allowed to want that much.

He didn’t even look at Sukuna’s face. Instead, his gaze stayed fixed on Sukuna’s back, how small it looked in the vastness of Satoru’s kitchen. His hair was still messy at the nape of his neck, it looked longer than when he first met Sukuna, stubborn strands sticking out in ways that made Satoru’s fingers itch to fix them. The line of his neck was exposed, distractingly elegant. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, wrinkled and soft, like someone who had just woken up from deep, much-needed sleep.

And there was no sheen of sweat anymore. No visible tension in the way Sukuna moved. Satoru quietly concluded that the fever had likely broken.

Time passed quietly, slipping by without either of them saying a single word. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full, heavy in a way that didn’t need to be broken. Satoru found himself savoring it, letting the moment stretch longer than it should, as if speaking would only disturb something fragile and precious. He rested his chin in his hands, elbows propped on the counter, simply watching Sukuna move around the kitchen as though this had always been their routine. The soft clink of plates, the low hiss of the stove, the faint scent of blueberries in the air. Everything felt painfully domestic, achingly normal. It settled warmly in Satoru’s chest, the kind of quiet happiness he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. For once, time wasn’t something chasing him or slipping cruelly through his fingers. It lingered, gentle and kind, and Satoru let it, wishing—just for a moment—that this ordinary morning could last a little longer.

Eventually, Sukuna finished cooking the pancakes.

It seems like Yuuji had made more than enough batter, and Sukuna figured it would be sufficient for three people. He reached for the plates stacked nearby and placing portions onto three separate plates with careful movements. From the small bowl set beside the batter, he sprinkled fresh blueberries over each serving, then added generous dollops of whipped cream that were already waiting on the counter too.

Sukuna didn’t know when Yuuji had prepared all of this. The thought alone made his chest tighten slightly. Still, he felt deeply grateful. It had been a long time since he’d eaten blueberry pancakes, long enough that the memory felt distant, almost unreal.

Last, he picked up the blueberry sauce and poured it slowly over the pancakes. It was there too. Of course it was.

It seemed Yuuji still remembered, perfectly, Sukuna’s obsession with blueberries.

After finishing plating the three portions of pancakes, Sukuna slid one of the plates toward Satoru, who immediately stared at it with his usual foolish expression. His eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise written all over his face, as if he truly hadn’t expected Sukuna to give him a share. For a brief second, Satoru had honestly thought Sukuna might be cruel enough to let the homeowner go without breakfast while he, the guest, enjoyed a ridiculously special meal all by himself.

Sukuna, however, didn’t react to Satoru at all. He turned his attention to his own plate and began eating without a word, deliberately ignoring the wide-eyed man standing across from him. Satoru, meanwhile, didn’t even move his fork. Instead, he found himself watching Sukuna as though he were witnessing something unreal.

Sukuna took his first bite while still standing, one hand holding the plate, the other gripping the fork. The moment the pancake entered his mouth, his eyes fluttered shut. The change was instant and unmistakable. His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his posture melting away as his expression softened, almost brightening. A small, unguarded smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he could stop it, as if the taste alone had reached somewhere deep inside him. Blueberries burst softly beneath his teeth, sweet and warm, balanced by the richness of the whipped cream and the tang of the sauce.

Anyone watching him now—anyone at all—would never believe this was the same Sukuna they knew.

Satoru swallowed, still staring. He leaned against the opposite side, completely captivated. Sukuna continued eating, bite after bite, growing increasingly focused, almost obsessed, with the pancake in front of him. He no longer spared Satoru a single glance. The world seemed to narrow until it was nothing but the plate, the fork, and the familiar, beloved taste of blueberry pancakes. He ate standing there, unhurried yet intent, as if afraid the moment might disappear if he wasn’t careful enough.

By the time Sukuna finished his portion, there wasn’t a single trace left. Not a crumb, not a smear of sauce. Even the last streaks of blueberry jam on the plate had been thoroughly cleaned, licked away without shame. He glanced at the second plate—the one meant for Yuuji, and hesitated. He weighed the thought carefully, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the counter. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to take it. Yuuji had gone out of his way to retrieve his belongings and Yoru. More than that, Yuuji had been the one to make this breakfast. Of course he deserved to eat it.

Sukuna’s gaze then shifted to Satoru’s plate.

It was still completely untouched. Satoru stood right there, his eyes fixed on Sukuna as if he’d forgotten food even existed.

Sukuna licked his lips slowly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His pride dissolved entirely at the sight before him—reduced to nothing for the sake of another serving of blueberry pancakes, complete with fluffy whipped cream and that rich, glossy blueberry sauce. His eyes remained locked on the plate. The pancakes sat there temptingly, still warm, the blueberries glistening under the kitchen lights. The whipped cream was beginning to soften at the edges, slowly melting into the surface, while the sauce pooled thickly along the sides, fragrant and sweet enough that Sukuna could almost taste it again just by looking.

Satoru, who had been watching Sukuna the entire time, understood perfectly what that look meant. He didn’t tease him, didn’t make a joke out of it. He simply lifted his untouched plate and held it out toward Sukuna, offering it with that familiar smile.

For a brief moment, Sukuna could only stare, genuinely caught off guard by Satoru’s behavior. His mouth fell open slightly in silent disbelief. Then Satoru nudged the plate closer, extending it again, wordlessly urging him to take it already.

“Are you sure?” Sukuna asked, uncertainty threading through his voice. He licked his lips once more—a small, unconscious gesture that completely wrecked Satoru’s focus. And yet, despite his hesitation, his hands moved on their own, betraying him. He accepted Satoru’s plate and placed it in front of himself, neatly replacing the empty one he had just finished.

“One hundred percent sure,” Satoru replied, grinning widely. Too wide. Too sweet. Sukuna thought that even if the blueberries weren’t sweet at all, Satoru’s smile alone could make them taste that way. A faint flush crept up the back of Sukuna’s neck.

“…Thank you.” Now the red had spread to his cheeks as well, blooming softly against his tan skin, which glowed golden in the morning light. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, spilling across Satoru’s apartment and settling on Sukuna as if it were doing him justice—highlighting the sharp lines of his face, the warmth of his skin, the way his expression softened when he let his guard down. From Satoru’s perspective, Sukuna looked almost unreal like this, standing there bathed in sunlight, cheeks flushed, eyes lowered in quiet gratitude.

He looks so gentle. Beautiful in a way that made Satoru’s chest ache just a little.

“Oh, don’t worry. I already feel incredibly full just watching you eat.” Satoru’s words are completely ignored. Sukuna has already returned his full attention to the pancakes in front of him, as if nothing else in the world exists. Satoru can only shake his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips, reaching for a glass and pouring water for Sukuna. He slides it closer across to him, worry flickering briefly through him, he’s genuinely afraid Sukuna might choke if he keeps eating that fast.

Sukuna pauses just long enough to grab the glass. He drinks deeply, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, a few drops of water slipping past the corner of his lips. He wipes it with the back of his hands then exhales softly afterward, as if the simple act of drinking grounds him, then sets the glass down and returns to his food with the same intense focus as before. When he’s finished, truly finished—down to the very last smear of blueberry sauce on the plate—without being asked, Sukuna starts cleaning up. He gathers the empty plates, the bowl of leftover batter, the spatula, carrying everything to the sink. Water runs, dishes clink softly, the sound steady. Satoru watches him in quiet awe, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the kitchen island, following behind Sukuna’s movements as if drawn by them. He wipes stray droplets of water, a bit of flour dust, a smear of blueberry sauce—small evidence that breakfast happened here, that this morning was real.

It feels absurdly intimate. Too intimate. And Satoru loves every second of it. In the middle of it all, while Sukuna is still rinsing the spatula, Satoru steps closer, cloth in hand, standing right beside him. “You know, you don’t have to do all that,” he says softly.

Sukuna pauses for only a second, then resumes rinsing the spatula and places it neatly on the rack beside the sink. “Too bad,” he replies flatly. “I’m not the type to live somewhere for free.”

Satoru frowns at that. He’s pretty sure he never asked for anything in return. “Did I ask you to do this for staying here?” he says, brows knitting together. “As far as I remember, I didn’t, Sukuna.”

“You didn’t,” Sukuna answers without hesitation. “But I’ll still do it.”

“Why?”

“Because I know nothing in this world is free, Gojo.”

“Oh, so it’s Gojo again now,” Satoru mutters.

“When have I not called you Gojo?” Sukuna asks, genuinely confused. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s never once called Satoru by his first name.

“Okay, forget that,” Satoru sighs. “The point is, don’t do things like this—especially not as payment for staying here.”

“Why?”

“Because not everything needs to be paid, Sukuna,” Satoru says gently. “You need to learn that sometimes, someone really does just want to help you.”

Now they’re facing each other across the stove, the island between them. Satoru crosses his arms over his chest, hip leaning against the counter. At some point, the cloth he was holding has ended up in Sukuna’s hands, and Sukuna is using it to wipe away the remaining water around the sink. He stops mid-motion and looks up at Satoru, studying his face carefully.

“…Is this because of Yuuji?” Sukuna asks, his voice quieter, searching.

“Huh? Yuuji? What does Yuuji have to do with this?”

“You’re doing all of this because of Yuuji, aren’t you?”

“You think I’d go this far because of Yuuji?” Satoru shoots back. “You think I’d willingly get involved in your plan to take down one of the strongest clans in Japan just because of Yuuji?”

Sukuna only shrugs, as if to say, isn’t that reason enough?

“No, Sukuna. That’s not it,” Satoru says, voice firm now. “And whatever the reason is, it doesn’t mean you have to pay me back.”

That only seems to confuse Sukuna even more. “So you wouldn’t do something like this for Yuuji?”

“Hey—don’t say it like that,” Satoru protests, his voice rising before he can stop it. “That sounds wrong. Of course I’d do things for Yuuji, don’t get me wrong. He’s one of my best friends. I’d do anything for him.” He pauses, frustration creeping into his tone. Talking to Sukuna always does this to him. “What I mean is… what I’m doing right now, or yesterday, or before that—I didn’t do it just because he’s my friend. Sure, maybe part of it is because of him, but it’s not entirely about Yuuji.”

“What are you even talking about? You’re just making it more confusing.” Sukuna frowns. “Whatever, I’m still going to pay while I’m staying here. End of discussion.”

Of course. Sukuna wouldn’t be Sukuna if he weren’t this stubborn.

“It’s because of you, okay?” Satoru blurts out the words tumbling out too fast, as if he’s afraid Sukuna might actually hear them.

“…?” red eyes staring at him.

“For God’s sake, Sukuna. I’m doing this for you!” Satoru gestures sharply, hands moving as if that might finally drive the point into Sukuna’s head. His face is flushed now—whether from frustration or something else, he doesn’t even know.

Sukuna only looks more bewildered. “And why would you do that for me?”

“Unbelievable…” Satoru laughs under his breath, drags a hand down his face, letting out a long, exhausted breath. “I don’t even know how else to explain this to you anymore. Do whatever you want—just know I won’t accept it if you try to pay me.”

“You’re a strange man, Gojo,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head as he turns and starts toward the stairs leading up to the second floor.

“Hey, where are you going?” Satoru calls after him.

“To get my phone. Yuuji’s taking forever.”

“You have Yuuji’s number?”

Sukuna stops on the second step and turns back to look at him.

“Isn’t he in the campus committee group chat?”

“Oh. Right,” Satoru admits. Then he hesitates. “But, Sukuna… I think your phone is kind of broken..”

“What?!”

“…I tried charging it yesterday, but it didn't work.”

Hearing that, Sukuna immediately turned and rushed upstairs, his footsteps quick and sharp as he muttered curses under his breath.

“…careful!” Satoru called out after him, raising his voice in the hope that Sukuna could still hear him.

Satoru watched Sukuna’s back disappear up the stairs and let out a small, quiet smile. A strange warmth spread through his chest, settling there comfortably. He hadn’t expected his morning—usually silent, empty, and uneventful—to feel like this. He hadn’t expected to be able to talk to Sukuna like this, casually, almost normally. Just a few weeks ago, Sukuna wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Back then, all they did was argue, trade insults, raise their voices at each other like two people constantly at war.

Now… this felt different.

It seemed that everything he had done over the past week hadn’t been for nothing. Even if it meant acting like a stalker, following Sukuna everywhere he went, keeping an eye on him from a distance, making sure he was okay. It had taken less than a week for him to get this close to Sukuna. Well, Satoru wouldn’t exactly say they were close close. But still… this counted for something, right? They were at least something like friends now. Weren’t they?

Satoru continued smiling faintly until Sukuna’s back completely vanished at the top of the stairs. Just as he turned back toward the kitchen, the sound of his apartment door opening reached his ears.

Satoru frowned slightly. He didn’t remember giving the access code to anyone—

“Hey! Satoru!”

Yuuji’s voice. Right. He had told Yuuji last night.

“Hey, you’re back already?”

“Good grief, you idiot!! Where is your phone?! I’ve been calling you for the past ten minutes so you could help me carry Sukuna’s stuff!” Yuuji stormed inside, his voice filled with frustration. Both of his hands were struggling to hold several pieces of Sukuna’s painting equipment, while a large backpack was slung over his shoulders. He was also clutching a box that was very clearly a cat carrier—muffled, angry noises coming from inside it.

Seeing that, Satoru immediately stepped forward to help, taking some of Sukuna’s belongings from Yuuji, including the cat carrier, which sounded like it contained a feral creature rather than a cat.

“Satoru, you’d better be careful with that,” Yuuji warned. “Sukuna’s cat is scary. I swear, even Uraume got scratched in the face, and the entire car ride here it kept screaming like it was possessed.” Yuuji let out a long sigh and dropped himself onto the sofa after placing the rest of Sukuna’s things on the floor. Still slightly out of breath, he added, “There are still two big suitcases downstairs.”

“I’ll get them.” Sukuna’s voice came from behind Satoru and Yuuji. He walked in holding his phone, which was clearly dead, and placed it on the table. Without hesitation, he took Yoru’s carrier from Satoru’s arms—the box still shaking from the cat’s frantic movements. Yoru continued to thrash and protest, sounding like a demon trying to break free of its cage.

And yet, somehow—by whatever magic Sukuna possessed—it instantly calmed down the moment Sukuna held the carrier. The violent rattling stopped, replaced by a soft, almost affectionate meow. Satoru felt a chill run down his spine. He handed the carrier over completely, deciding he wanted absolutely nothing to do with a creature that terrifying.

“No. I’ll go get them,” Satoru said firmly. “You stay here and take care of your cat.” He passed the carrier to Sukuna, then held out his hand expectantly toward Yuuji. Yuuji reached into his jeans pocket and handed him the car keys.

Just as Satoru reached the door, he turned back and added, “Oh, right—your room is the one downstairs. Put your things there.” And with that, he escaped, disappearing out the door and leaving Sukuna and Yuuji alone together—clearly fleeing from Yoru more than anything else.

—------------------------

After spending roughly fifteen minutes, Satoru returned carrying Sukuna’s two suitcases—both of which he was absolutely certain contained the entirety of Sukuna’s apartment, judging by how ridiculously heavy they were. Even Satoru, with his fairly well-built physique, found himself struggling under their weight. Finally, he stepped inside, fully expecting either Yuuji or Sukuna to rush over and help him. Instead, what greeted him was a tense, almost suffocating atmosphere between the two brothers. Sukuna was sitting facing the entrance where Satoru stood, a black cat—one Satoru was sure was Yoru—resting calmly on his lap. Yuuji sat close beside him on his left. The two of them were clearly in the middle of a heated argument.

The moment Sukuna and Yuuji noticed Satoru’s presence, their attention snapped toward him. Suddenly becoming the center of both their gazes, Satoru let out an awkward laugh. “Hey,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” Yuuji said, turning his body to face Satoru. “We should just end this pointless argument already. We need to get to campus.”

Satoru dragged Sukuna’s suitcases further inside and set them down near the sofa where they were sitting, quietly trying to piece together what kind of situation he had just walked into. He had honestly thought Sukuna and Yuuji had already made up?

“Don’t you dare. We’re not done,” Sukuna snapped at Yuuji, his tone openly challenging. His expression was almost absurd—like an angry child demanding backup, clearly looking for someone to take his side.

“Ugh… Sukuna, come on…” Yuuji let out a long sigh, sounding completely exhausted, as if he was on the verge of giving up on arguing altogether.

“Let’s ask Satoru,” Sukuna finally said, his gaze shifting sharply toward Satoru. “How do you tell which twin is older?” His expression hardened, seriousness settling in fully, as if this answer mattered more to him than he was willing to admit—and he needed it now, honest and unfiltered. Sukuna knew Satoru would give him that. 

The intensity of Sukuna’s stare pressing down on Satoru. And that completely stunned Satoru because he hadn’t expected his opinion about which of them was older was matter at all, right? Like, this must be a joke because if not this means that his opinion would decide whether their relationship would improve—or completely fall apart. He swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how nervous he felt.

Satoru glanced at Yuuji, silently asking for guidance on how to answer this without ruining the fragile peace they had only just reached the night before. Yuuji simply leaned back against the sofa, looking utterly defeated, and gave Satoru a subtle look that clearly said: Just answer it.

“Why?” Satoru asked instead, trying to buy himself some time. Desperately searching for a way out of answering a question that clearly meant far more to Sukuna than he had anticipated, and that could easily shake the newly mended bond between the two brothers.

“I mean, since yesterday Yuuji has been calling me his little brother nonstop—today too—and all I want to say that he’s wrong,” Sukuna said heatedly, as if this were an important political debate that could decide the future of their country. His hands moved restlessly as he spoke, scattering the fine black fur of Yoru that he had been absentmindedly smoothing just moments ago. “I’m the older one. He is my little brother.”

Yuuji frowned, clearly already tired of this argument. “I told you that’s not true. You’re my younger brother, and I’m the older one, because I was born first.”

Sukuna sucked in a sharp breath. “And I told you, you’re wrong,” he continued, voice rising. “Mom said I was older. She said I’m your older brother.” His jaw tightened. “So that means I’m the older one.”

“And I said that’s nonsense,” Yuuji shot back, just as stubborn. “Because according to our birth certificates, I was born four minutes earlier than you, Sukuna.”

“So, what? You’re saying Mom lied to me?!” Sukuna’s voice climbed higher, sharp and defensive, like the very idea was unacceptable.

“No, I’m not saying Mom lied to you,” Yuuji replied, voice softer, rubbing his temples. “I’m saying that officially—according to the government records—you’re my younger brother and I’m the older one. There’s legal proof of that.” He exhaled slowly. “And maybe Mom used that some old-fashioned way of counting our age as twins, where the one who came later was the older one. So, you ended up being the older one because you came four minutes later than me. And, fine. That’s totally fine. This really isn’t a big deal, Sukuna.” Yuuji looked at Sukuna, his tone softening despite his exhaustion. “It doesn’t matter, really. We’re still brothers, okay?”

“It matters to me,” Sukuna said, biting his lower lip. “Where is our birth certificate? I never checked and I didn’t bring it when I left either.” He clenched his hands and stared straight into Yuuji’s eyes, hoping his brother would understand what he was trying to say—why knowing which one of them was older mattered more to Sukuna than it did to Yuuji.

What he didn’t say out loud was the fear twisting tightly in his chest. If it was true, if Yuuji really was older, then did that mean their mother had been lying to him all this time? Lying when she told him he had to protect Yuuji because he is the older brother? Lying when she said he should always give in for Yuuji’s sake. Lying when she demanded that he should act like the good, responsible older brother Yuuji needed. All that pressure. All those words. That couldn’t all be a lie. It couldn’t be.

Sukuna refused to accept the idea that his mother had deceived him all this time. He wanted and he needed to cling to the belief that she wasn’t that cruel, that she wasn’t that heartless to him, right? She wouldn’t lie about something like this. She wouldn’t lie to him and then abandon him. She just wouldn’t. She couldn’t do that to him.

He wanted to believe that at least he had still mattered to her. Even if only a little, he wished he meant something to her. 

Sukuna knew his relationship with his mother had never been good. Yuuji had always had a better bond with her—with everyone, really. Yuuji was always the better one, and Sukuna had always known that. But his mother loved him too… didn’t she? Sukuna knew he wasn’t a good child, let alone an obedient one. Still, he had always listened to her. Always.

He knew he was a difficult child. He knew it. But he had treated her like a God. To him, her words were absolute, unquestionable truths that he had to accept, or else he would become a rebel, a disappointing son, right?

So, he trusted her, he trusted her with his life. But was it not enough? 

Wasn’t that what got him thrown away in the first place? Because he wasn’t enough? Because he always asked more?

Wasn’t that what got him thrown away in the first place? Because he always resisted? Sukuna remembered how his father and grandfather would scold him endlessly, calling him all kinds of terrible things. And Sukuna knew his mother must have thought the same, because she never once defended him. He knew what he did was wrong. He was always fighting, always demanding the life he wanted—and he knew it was wrong. 

He could never be like Yuuji, who did everything right, who never demanded anything, who made everything look easier and better than Sukuna ever could.

Sukuna also knew what he was doing right now was incredibly childish. Arguing over who was older? Demanding proof? It was ridiculous. He could practically hear his grandfather’s voice in his head, scolding him for this if he were still alive and saw Sukuna dragging Yuuji into something so trivial.

And yet, Sukuna couldn’t live with the thought that his mother had been lying to him all along. As if being thrown out of his family wasn't enough, she lied to him too.

He knew this wasn’t fair. He knew he was asking too much of Yuuji. Yuuji had been good to him. He had even apologized for things Sukuna knew weren’t his fault. Yuuji had befriended Satoru enough for Satoru to let Sukuna stay here and help them with all the chaos. Yuuji had agreed to be part of their dangerous plan too. Yuuji had gone back to get all of Sukuna’s belongings. Yuuji was always so good to him, nice and calm and always did whatever Suku wanted.

But still—Sukuna couldn’t let it go. He had to know whether his mother had lied or not.

Maybe this was just who he was, a flaw he could never get rid of, just like what his father said, just like his grandfather and his grandmother had always said. He could still hear their voices in his head, yelling at him for being like this, for always demanding too much, for being angry and difficult and impossible to control. Always doing things his own way.

That was why they had all thrown him away. Leaving behind the angry, defiant child who demanded too much.

Yuuji’s sigh filled the room again, long and weary. “I’ll look for it at home later, okay?” He shifted his position, moving closer to Sukuna, his gaze sharpening as he looked straight into Sukuna’s red eyes. “And if the birth certificate proves that I’m the older one, I don’t want that to be a problem between us. I’ll stop calling you my little brother if that’s what you want. But promise me, Sukuna—promise me that this won’t turn into another fight between us. Okay?”

Sukuna nodded in understanding, even though, deep down, his heart didn’t feel like it at all.

“Alright. I’ll take a shower, and we’ll head to campus after that. Mai already threatened to kill me if I don’t show up at today’s meeting.” With that, Yuuji left the living room and walked toward the bathroom.

The atmosphere in the living room shifted almost immediately, growing awkward and heavy in his absence. Sukuna remained seated, his posture slightly stiff, shoulders tense without him realizing it. Yoru slept quietly on his lap, rising and falling with slow, steady breaths, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside Sukuna’s chest. He ignored the warmth of the small body resting against him, his gaze fixed blankly ahead after the sound of the bathroom door closing echoed through the apartment. His thoughts drifted, slipping out of control. Scenario after scenario played through his mind, each one darker than the last. No matter how he twisted them, none of them ended well. Why did his mom lie about this?

“Hey,” Satoru stepped closer and gently placed a hand on Sukuna’s knee, the touch careful, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid Sukuna might pull away. “Come on. Let me help you unpack your things.” Satoru gestured toward the suitcases that were still neglected near the couch, trying to break the thick, awkward silence hanging in the air.

Satoru smiled at him, soft and careful, offering his presence in the quietest way he could. He hoped it might ease the tension etched into Sukuna’s face. He hoped Sukuna, who had just begun to open up again, wouldn’t close himself off once more. He hoped that simply being there might help Sukuna return to himself, even if only a little. He wanted to pull Sukuna out of his thoughts, to bring him back, to the version of Sukuna he had seen earlier that morning. The one standing in his kitchen, relaxed, smiling, quietly obsessed with blueberry pancakes, eyes soft and unguarded, almost smiling. Satoru wanted that Sukuna back.

But it didn’t work.

Sukuna still looked distant, his expression tight, sadness and irritation tangled together behind his eyes. The warmth Satoru had hoped to find wasn’t there.

Then finally Sukuna stood up and grabbed the two large suitcases. He dragged them toward the bedroom on his own, deliberately not allowing Satoru to help. In Sukuna’s mind, he had already been a burden long enough. He already took too much, asked far too much. He had learned long ago that being inconvenient—being needy—was how people eventually got tired of you. He knew that in the end, people like that always get abandoned.

His parents had done it. His grandparents had done it too. And one day, Yuuji would do it too. 

Even Satoru might eventually do the same too.

Sukuna couldn’t let that happen.

Sukuna refused to let that happen.

—------------------------

The ride to campus that morning was painfully awkward. Satoru sat behind the wheel, his hands steady on the steering wheel, Yuuji took the passenger seat beside him, and Sukuna occupied the backseat, his gaze fixed outside the window as if the world beyond the glass was the only thing worth acknowledging. Not a single word passed between the brothers. Yuuji had mentioned that his head and back hurt a little and decided it would be safer to ride with Satoru instead. As for Sukuna—stubborn as ever—he had insisted on going alone at first. But Yuuji, just as hardheaded in his own way, had shut that idea down immediately, saying it was far too dangerous for Sukuna to be seen leaving the Gojo residence on his own. In the end, Sukuna got into the car with a face tight with restrained anger and didn’t utter another sound for the rest of the drive.

To Satoru, though, there was something almost painfully endearing about the whole thing. No matter how angry Sukuna looked, no matter how hard he tried to cling to that sulky, closed-off expression, in the end he still listened to Yuuji. He could pout, glare, turn his face away in silent protest but he got into the car anyway.

Satoru caught it in the small details over the past few days that Sukuna, despite all his sharp words and constant scowls, wasn't actually difficult to deal with. It showed in how he would argue fiercely only to fall silent moments later, how he grumbled yet still followed Yuuji, how his anger burned hot but never lasted long enough to turn truly cruel. Sukuna resisted loudly, dramatically even, but when it mattered, he yielded. Satoru knew it was not out of weakness. It’s a quiet, reluctant trust, one he doesn’t even realize he’s giving. It was subtle, but to Satoru, it said everything. 

Beneath the sharp edges and stubborn temper, Sukuna’s heart was softer than he wanted anyone to see and somehow, Yuuji still had a hold on it.

And quietly, selfishly, Satoru found himself wanting it too.

Beside Satoru, Yuuji pulled his cap low, covering half his face, and soon looked like he had fallen asleep. Only then did Satoru really notice that not just Sukuna, but Yuuji too wasn’t doing well. There was something worn and fragile about him this morning, something quiet that Satoru hadn’t paid attention to before.

They parted ways at campus, agreeing to meet again in the afternoon, depending on Suguru, who was still arranging their meeting with his team. Yuuji waved lazily, yawning as he headed toward the sports building. Sukuna didn’t say a word, turning on his heel and walking straight toward the art building without looking back. Left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Satoru could only let out a tired sigh. He should get to his own class soon, if not his attendance record would suffer, and today already felt heavy enough without adding that to the list.

The sky over Tokyo remained overcast that day. It wasn’t raining, but the clouds hung low and heavy, and the sun seemed reluctant to show itself until late afternoon. The campus, however, was lively as ever. Students moved from building to building, some yawning lazily as the slow, gloomy day weighed on them, yet their excitement about the upcoming campus anniversary was enough to lift the general mood. Conversations buzzed everywhere, anticipation cutting through the sluggish air.

The committee meeting that day felt different from the rest. Maybe it was the dim weather outside, or maybe it was the tension filling the meeting room itself but something was undeniably off. All the members were present, including Yuuji, who had been absent for several days. He arrived late, earning himself a sharp lecture from Mai about his irresponsibility as the campus football club captain. Only after enduring her scolding did Yuuji finally drop into an empty chair beside Sukuna. An action that, rather than easing things, made the atmosphere noticeably more awkward.

Yuuji, who was usually inseparable from Megumi, now sat far away from him. The shift didn’t go unnoticed. People exchanged curious glances, quietly reading into the sudden distance. Megumi looked indifferent, his expression unreadable, while Yuuji acted as if Megumi didn’t exist at all. The change was so stark that it sent silent questions rippling through their friend group.

Sukuna noticed everything unfolding right in front of him. Yet instead of reacting, he remained outwardly detached. Yuuji, for his part, was already talking to Uraume beside him, discussing a short message Suguru had sent—something about where the meeting was going to be later that day. On the other side of the room, Satoru found himself looking toward Megumi, only to be met with Nobara flipping him off in response. Watching it all, Sukuna couldn’t help but draw his own conclusion. Yuuji and Megumi were clearly fighting. And for a brief, unsettling moment, Sukuna wondered—Was it because of him?

“How about you, Sukuna?” Utahime’s voice from his right startled him out of his thoughts.

“Hm?” Sukuna blinked, turning toward her.

“For our art club exhibition, what do you think about contributing your work as well?” Utahime looked at him with open hope, as if his participation genuinely mattered to her, not just as another name to fill a slot.

Sukuna hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly around the pen in his hand. “I’m not sure. I’m not that good, you know.”

“Bullshit,” Utahime scoffed without hesitation, then lowered her voice just a little. “I’ve seen you paint, Sukuna. I know you’re that good. So, you better get one or two of your paintings in this exhibition.” Sukuna opened his mouth as if to argue, then hesitated. Before he could say anything else, Utahime had already turned her attention back to Mai at the front of the room, posture relaxed, as though Sukuna’s participation was no longer a question but a decision already made.

Mai continued speaking, her tone sharp and authoritative as always. She reminded everyone—again—that by next week, every booth had to submit its theme so the layout and rundown could be finalized. Her gaze then snapped toward Yuuji, and she launched into another lecture about responsibility, emphasizing that all permits for the inter-club sports matches were still under his name. Yuuji nodded earnestly, hands raised in surrender, promising that everything would be taken care of by tomorrow at the latest. Naoya, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, clicked his tongue in obvious irritation upon hearing that, his annoyance clear even without him saying a word.

Sukuna shifted his gaze back toward Megumi, who this time looked at Yuuji first—then at Sukuna. 

Oh.

Sukuna knew that look.

He had learned to recognize it since he was a child.

The look of someone who didn’t like him. And Sukuna knew, with an aching certainty, that Fushiguro Megumi hated him. It was the kind of stare that seemed to blame him for everything wrong in the world, as if his mere existence was an offense to the world.

For a few seconds, they held each other’s gaze. That was all it took to convince Sukuna that whatever had happened between Yuuji and Megumi, it had to be his fault. Megumi eventually turned away, refocusing on his friends when someone behind him struck up a conversation. Sukuna’s eyes followed the movement and caught sight of Satoru’s unmistakable white hair rising behind Megumi’s shoulder. They were talking about something. Sukuna couldn’t hear what. But whatever it was, it made Megumi glanced back at Sukuna again, and Satoru followed the direction of that look. For a fraction of a second, the three of them locked eyes.

Something crawled under Sukuna’s skin.

His ears burned, heat rushing to them, and the sensation dragged him back to the first day he had arrived at the Ryomen household. It felt exactly the same. His grandmother. The staff. The bodyguards. The maids. Even the gardener. They had all looked at him like this. As if Sukuna were a fly—an unwanted nuisance that should never have come in the first place. And his classmates at school too—had looked at him that same way. Eyes lingering a second too long, whispers trailing behind his back, desks subtly shifting away from him. Teachers, too, with their tight smiles and careful distance, watched him as if he were a problem waiting to happen rather than a student who needed help. And that also reminded him of that convenience store manager, the one who had fired him, had worn that same expression too. Reminded him of his grandfather back then when he was still a part of his family. Reminded him of his father on the day he threw Sukuna out of his only home.

The look that said Sukuna was nothing. Like he was disposable. Replaceable. Easier to remove than to understand. It followed him everywhere, clung to his skin no matter how often he tried to scrub it off, until he couldn’t tell anymore whether they were all seeing something rotten in him or if he had simply learned to see himself the same way.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

Utahime’s hand landing gently on his shaking hands, startled Sukuna out of his spiraling thoughts, snapping him back into the meeting room before the memories could sink any deeper.

By the time Sukuna blinked, their stares was already gone. Megumi was facing his friends again, voice low, expression unchanged. Satoru leaned in to listen, smiling like he always did. No lingering glance. No tension. Nothing to mark what had just happened. It was as if it never happened, as if Sukuna had never been there to begin with. As if the looks, the pressure, the familiar sting under his skin were nothing more than a false alarm. It feels like his mind is reaching for patterns that didn’t exist.

And just like that everyone's attention drifted back to Mai at the front of the room.

Beside him, Yuuji shot Sukuna a glance, asking if something was wrong but Sukuna ignored him. He forced his focus forward instead, eyes settling on Mai as she continued speaking. He didn’t have the time or the energy to entertain Yuuji’s concern, or whatever silent tension lingered between him and his boyfriend. He was here for his classes. For his work. For his art.

He wanted to do something. He wanted to feel useful. Maybe Utahime was right—maybe he should contribute something to the exhibition. He had already half finished one painting he’d promised to the principal; doing a few more wouldn’t hurt, would it? Or maybe he could display some of the pieces he’d worked on over the past few months. The thought lingered, uncertain but tempting.

Mai cleared her throat and announced that next week would be their final meeting to lock in the remaining details. After that, once the next month began, everyone would be expected to shift their focus entirely to monitor how the students who participated work on their booths or performances. For three full days of the anniversary event, they would be responsible for accompanying and supporting every participating booth. That meant sourcing vendors for booth construction, printing flyers and banners, designing and producing committee uniforms, preparing name tags for each participant, and handling countless other logistical details that came with an event of that scale.

With that, today’s meeting was officially done. The room dissolved into movement as everyone stood and filed out almost at once. From the corner of his eye, Sukuna caught sight of Satoru approaching Yuuji, a hand settling on Yuuji’s shoulder as he gently pulled him aside, clearly intending to speak in private. The rest of Yuuji’s friends drifted away together with Megumi, their laughter and low conversation fading down the hallway.

Sukuna forced himself not to dwell on it. He lowered his gaze instead, focusing on packing away his notebook. Which remained blank from the start of the meeting to the end, its empty pages staring back at him like a quiet accusation.

And someone suddenly tugged at his sleeve. “I’m serious, Sukuna. You really need to think about it, okay?” Utahime said, her voice firm despite the hesitant smile on her face. “Your paintings deserve to be exhibited.”

There was something awkward in the way she stood there, like they weren’t close enough yet for this kind of encouragement, like she was crossing an invisible boundary between acquaintance and friend. Sukuna didn’t respond though. He simply watched as Utahime eventually turned away, walking toward Shoko—who Sukuna assumed, distantly, was her partner. Or at least, someone important to her.

“Sukuna,” Uraume’s voice echoed softly, pulling him back. “I’ve already sent you the address for tonight’s meeting. Or… do you want me to pick you up?”

The room had emptied out completely by then. It was just the two of them now, the lingering quiet pressing in around them.

“No. My phone’s broken,” Sukuna replied flatly as he headed for the door. “Where is it?” He didn’t slow his pace. Today, he planned to head to the restaurant early. He didn’t want to spend too much time at Satoru’s house. Didn’t want to linger there any longer than necessary. Maybe it would be better to start asking for earlier shifts, even overtime, just to avoid going home and had to look at Satoru Gojo's eyes staring at him like he was nothing.

“Garden Palace. 7 p.m. You’re off today, right?”

“No,” Sukuna said without hesitation. “I’ve taken too many days off already. My shift starts at eight, so tell them not to be late.”

With that, he left Uraume behind and headed straight for the library. He still had a few unfinished assignments weighing on him, and the library felt like the only place he could breathe while working through them. He only hoped he wouldn’t run into Satoru there.

—----------------------

That night, the air over Tokyo felt heavy and restless. Thunder rolled low across the sky, a distant, warning growl that vibrated through the city, but the rain hadn’t fallen yet. Clouds hung thick and swollen above the streets, pressing down as if they were holding their breath. The wind moved in uneven gusts, cool against the skin, carrying the sharp scent of ozone that always came before a storm. It made the night feel suspended and tense as though something was waiting to break.

Garden Palace stood quietly in the middle of the city, untouched by the chaos of traffic and neon lights surrounding it. Known for its uncompromising privacy, it was the kind of restaurant politicians, business elites, and celebrities trusted for meetings that were never meant to be overheard. From the outside, the building looked grand and imposing, its architecture unmistakably traditional, but once inside, the atmosphere softened into something calm and deliberate. The staff moved gracefully in their yukata, voices low, steps careful, as if the walls themselves demanded discretion.

Upon entering, guests were first greeted by an open front garden—neatly arranged stones, trimmed shrubs, and lanterns glowing faintly under the dark sky. This area was reserved for those who didn’t require seclusion, a quiet but visible space.

Deeper inside, however, the restaurant revealed its true heart: a broader, more secluded garden stretching inward, lined with wooden corridors. Along these pathways were private meeting rooms, hidden behind sliding doors, each one designed to shield its occupants from the outside world. It was serene, almost detached from reality, a place where conversations could unfold safely, unheard by anyone who wasn’t meant to listen—just as the thunder continued to murmur above, promising rain that still refused to fall.

Sukuna entered the Garden Palace Restaurant alone.

After deliberately avoiding everyone, he had finally managed to get through the day by locking himself away in the library, wrestling with several unfinished assignments. He spent hours sitting in the corner of the room, tucked near the very back shelves, a small fortress of books stacked beside him. His laptop rested on his thighs, while his headset stayed firmly in place, replaying recorded lectures he still couldn’t fully understand. As someone with dyslexia, Sukuna had long accepted that studying would never come easy to him. If he wanted to keep his scholarship, he had to work twice as hard—no, ten times harder than most students, pushing himself far beyond what felt fair or reasonable. And even though he had grown up in a family that was more than well-off, Sukuna knew better than to depend on that fact. None of that comfort had ever truly belonged to him. Whatever he had could be taken away without warning, just as it always had been. Because of that, he understood that the only thing he could ever rely on was himself.

Sukuna was still wearing the same clothes from that morning: blue jeans and his black hoodie, a gray sling bag slung across his chest—the one he’d bought with his first paycheck. A red cap was pulled low over his head, its brim shadowing his eyes. He wasn’t sure whether he wore it to avoid being recognized or simply to shield himself from people’s stares. After what had happened in the meeting earlier—he found it harder than usual to meet anyone’s eyes. Every glance felt loaded, as if people were looking at him the same way they always had. He couldn’t tell anymore whether the scrutiny was real or just something his mind refused to let go of, but it was enough to make him keep his head down. And on his feet were his 1906a black New Balance sneakers, the same pair he’d worn when he left the Ryomen residence last year.

After quietly giving Uraume’s name to the receptionist, just as Uraume had instructed him earlier that day, Sukuna was guided through the corridor and escorted to their private meeting room, grateful for the brief moment of anonymity the hushed space provided.

Sukuna was escorted to the very last room at the end of the third corridor’s turn. The bamboo sliding door looked thick and expensive, its surface carved with intricate floral patterns so delicate they almost seemed alive. The woman in the yukata slid it open with practiced care, then stepped aside and bowed deeply inviting Sukuna in. He nodded in return, murmuring a soft thank you before stepping over the threshold.

The layout of the room revealed itself immediately. Straight ahead, just beyond the sliding door, stood a large square white table, surrounded by chairs arranged in a wide U-shape. Each chair had a tall, imposing backrest—high-backed chairs that rose well above shoulder height, reminiscent of the ones in old halls and ancient meeting chambers, giving the room a sense of quiet authority. The space itself was larger than it first appeared, with several carefully placed vases and warm, low-hanging lamps that cast a soft, amber glow across the room.

The thick walls were fully adorned with carved panels and ancient Japanese paintings, it was black and green, and yellow and pink and red—inked landscapes, faded figures, and brushstrokes preserved with almost religious care. It was beautiful.

The green high-backed chairs and elevated table made the seating feel formal, almost ceremonial, as if the room was designed to remind anyone who sat there to mind their posture, their words, their place. Sukuna’s gaze drifted upward instead of forward, instinctively drawn to the artwork lining the walls.

As someone who lived through art, lines, and texture, Sukuna found the paintings on the wall far more captivating than the four people already in the room.

Satoru Gojo was seated beside Suguru Geto, directly across from Sukuna, who still stood near the sliding door. Uraume stood at the far end of the room, positioned like a silent bodyguard, alert and unmoving. Sukuna could also see Yuuji too—seated slightly to Satoru’s right, already turned toward him. Every pair of eyes in the room was on Sukuna.

Yuuji smiled, soft and relieved, as if Sukuna’s presence alone was enough. Uraume gave a stiff nod. While Suguru Geto lifted a hand in an easy wave, greeting him like they were old friends. Sukuna noticed how he sat close, so close, to Satoru. Not that Sukuna minds, not at all. And then there was Gojo Satoru.

That man smiled brightly—too brightly—his presence almost radiant, as if he outshone even the hanging lamps above them. The light seemed to cling to him effortlessly, making it impossible to ignore that he was there, that he always was.

Sukuna’s gaze locked onto Satoru.

“What is he doing here?” Sukuna asked flatly, eyes never leaving Gojo’s face. “I don’t remember him being part of this plan.”

For a fleeting second, something crossed Satoru’s expression, something sharp and wounded, like he’d been struck somewhere tender. But Sukuna didn’t care. He truly didn’t. All he knew was the familiar irritation tightening in his chest.

“To be honest,” Yuuji replied carefully, “he kind of became part of this the moment he agreed to let you stay at his apartment, Sukuna.”

“No,” Sukuna said immediately, his voice cutting through the room. There it was—his sharp mouth, honed and ready, always inviting conflict no matter who stood in front of him. “He has no stake in this. So please leave, Gojo.”

“What?”

“Why?”

Yuuji’s voice and Satoru’s overlapped, both reacting at the same time. Surprised, confused, caught off guard by the blunt rejection.

“Either I leave,” Sukuna said, his voice dropping into a cold, unmistakably threatening tone, “or he does.”

Sukuna wasn’t bluffing. If Satoru stayed, Sukuna would walk out. He refused to let Gojo Satoru hear anything about their plan, about him, about his family, about the things that had never belonged to anyone else but him. Sukuna couldn’t allow someone who had no real stake in this to listen in, to collect pieces of his life like trivia, to learn secrets that had been carved into him through pain and abandonment.

He didn’t want someone like Satoru to know him that deeply.

Or maybe—Sukuna clenched his jaw—maybe that was just another lie he told himself. Maybe the real reason was simpler and far more pathetic. Maybe he was terrified that if Satoru learned everything, truly everything, he would look at Sukuna the same way the others had. Just like earlier that day, right? With disappointment. With disgust. With that quiet certainty that Sukuna was too much trouble to keep around. That Sukuna was the problem.

The irony tasted bitter on his tongue, because deep down, Sukuna knew this resistance was pointless. Whether Satoru sat in this room or not, whether he heard the plan or was kicked out right now, Gojo Satoru already had access to the truth. He was a Gojo, after all. All it would take was a single request, one idle favor asked of the right person, and by tomorrow every ugly detail of Sukuna’s life would be neatly compiled and delivered straight to him. Every failure. Every family scandal. Every reason Sukuna had been cast aside.

“You’re being really difficult, you know that?” Suguru’s voice rang out, sharp and laced with open irritation, as though he had finally lost the patience he’d been forcing himself to maintain. “It’s like everything is wrong to you, Sukuna.”

Suguru let out a short, humorless breath, his eyes hard. “I’ve been holding back since yesterday, but you just keep making things harder for everyone. You always do this. Angry, and always turning things into drama, always complicating what shouldn’t be complicated.” The words sank deep, burrowing into Sukuna’s chest before he could stop them.

That same sensation crawled back under his skin. The one he’d felt earlier in the meeting room when Megumi and Satoru had looked at him like he was something dirty. The same tightness from that argument with Yuuji this morning. The same suffocating pressure he’d known all his life, standing in front of his grandfather, his father, his grandmother, listening as they told him what he was.

That he was too much.

Their voices overlapped in his mind, blending together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

So this really was it, wasn’t it? He really was just hard to deal with. A problem no one wanted to solve. Suguru didn’t look away when he continued, his tone firm, final. “Just think of Satoru as part of my team, alright?” he said evenly. “He’s on my team, and his job is the same as everyone else’s—keeping you safe.” Suguru exhaled through his nose, irritation finally slipping through the cracks of his composure. “Like it or not, Sukuna, you need protection. You need people watching your back,” Suguru added bluntly, with no attempt made to soften the truth. “So stop making this harder than it already is and sit your ass down over there, because my team is about to arrive, and when they do, we’re going to talk this through like adults.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He could already feel the familiar heat rising in his chest, the sharp retort forming at the tip of his tongue. Something biting, something cruel enough to cut straight through Suguru. He was ready to spit it out, ready to escalate this into yet another confrontation—

—but before a single word could leave his mouth, the bamboo door behind him slid open. The sound was soft, controlled, deliberate. And yet, it was enough to pull the air out of the room. Sukuna paused mid-breath and shifted his body slightly to the side, instinctively making space as his gaze snapped toward the entrance. His eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing, every muscle in his body tightening as he took in the figures entering one by one.

So this was Suguru’s team.

The first man who stepped inside was unmistakably older, somewhere in his forties, maybe fifties? He carried himself with an easy confidence that bordered on laziness, as if nothing in this room could truly surprise or threaten him anymore. His hair was brown, short, and messily spiked upward—uncannily similar to Sukuna’s own, just lighter, softer in color. The resemblance made Sukuna’s stomach twist for reasons he refused to examine.

The man wore a tailored work suit, partially concealed beneath a long brown coat that swayed with each step. A lollipop stem jutted out from the corner of his mouth, the candy rolling idly between his teeth as if this meeting were nothing more than a mild inconvenience or entertainment. But what caught Sukuna’s attention immediately was what the coat failed to fully hide.

A sword. Strapped securely to the man’s back.

Even with the fabric covering most of it, Sukuna could see the unmistakable outline of the sheath, the weight of it pulling against the man’s shoulders. Sukuna knew that wasn’t decorative. That was the kind of weapon carried by someone who knew exactly how to use it and wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

The man stopped near the table, finally pulling the lollipop from his mouth to nod at Suguru in greeting, his expression calm, almost bored, like this was all routine.

Then the rest of the group followed.

Two girls entered behind him, both clearly much younger—teenagers, Sukuna guessed, based on their clothes and the careless way they moved. They didn’t greet anyone. Didn’t even bother lifting their heads properly. Their attention remained firmly on their phones, thumbs moving rapidly as they walked in like they owned the place. They took seats beside Suguru Geto without hesitation, their movements practiced, familiar, like this seating arrangement had been repeated countless times before.

Only then did Sukuna fully register that they’re twins. Similar faces, similar posture, similar detached expressions. They leaned back in their chairs, still scrolling, still uninterested, as if whatever dangerous discussion was about to unfold meant nothing more to them than background noise. Seeing no one else enter the room, Sukuna could only murmur under his breath, oh, they must be joking.

This had to be a joke, Sukuna thinks. Because there was no way—absolutely no way—that this was the team meant to dismantle the Ryomen clan. Impossible. Surely they weren’t seriously suggesting that a group made up of one middle-aged man and two teenage girls could take down a family like his. That couldn’t be real. It didn’t make sense.

“Sorry we’re late,” the man said casually as he sat next to the girls, his tone light, almost careless. “There was a bit of drizzle outside, traffic got backed up. And, please sit down, Sukuna.” The way the man said his name made Sukuna stiffen. As if he knew him all along..

“No, thank you,” Sukuna replied flatly, subtly adjusting his stance. One thing life had drilled into him over and over again was, if you were forced to be in a room with people you didn’t trust, you stayed close to the exit. Always.

Well. He trusted Yuuji, of course. But Yuuji had a habit of doing stupid, reckless things, so that trust only went so far. Satoru and Uraume had already fallen off his mental list of people he could rely on. As for Suguru Geto and his so-called team? Sukuna didn’t trust them at all. Not even a little. Just look at the way Geto was staring at him now, irritation barely concealed behind a thin layer of patience. Sukuna didn’t care. He didn’t like him either. So, he remained near by the door, his back straight, eyes sharp, staring down the seven pairs of eyes that kept flicking toward him one after another. It was a silent challenge.

The brown-haired stranger let out a long, weary sigh, as if he was already exhausted before whatever conversation they were about to have had even begun.

“All right,” the man said at last. “I’ll start by introducing myself.” He paused briefly, as though weighing the words. “My name is Atsuya.” Another beat of silence followed, deliberate. “Ryomen Atsuya.”

Sukuna didn’t know how to react—not because the name carried meaning to him, but because it didn’t. He had no idea who Atsuya was. Worse, he had never once heard of a Ryomen by that name. During all the years he had lived under his grandmother’s roof, surrounded by members of the Ryomen clan, no one had ever mentioned someone named Atsuya Ryomen. Not in passing. Not in whispers. Not even as an insult. If this man truly was a Ryomen, then judging by his age, the most logical conclusion was that he was his grandmother’s child.

But then, why had he never been spoken of?

What startled Sukuna even more than the name itself was the reaction it provoked around the room. Yuuji’s eyes widened slightly, his expression flickering with unmistakable surprise. Satoru, too, seemed momentarily caught off guard, the usual ease in his posture faltering for just a fraction of a second. Even Uraume—who almost never let emotion show—looked openly stunned, his reaction clear and unmasked.

So who the hell is this man? Sukuna genuinely didn’t know.

“And who are you supposed to be?” Sukuna asked coldly. “The old hag’s bastard child?”

The man let out a quiet chuckle, unbothered. “Your mouth really is sharp,” he said lightly. “Just like Kaori’s.”

“You don’t know who he is?” Satoru’s voice cut through the room, and it only made Sukuna more irritated. Yes, he didn’t know who this man was. So what? Was that such a crime? Sukuna had only escaped the Ryomen household barely a year ago. For most of his life, all he had known was work after work after work. Was he a celebrity? Sukuna couldn’t even name one celebrity in his childhood let alone now, he was busy with orders given by his grandmother. Tasks he was never allowed to refuse. The outside world had been something distant and abstract, something he was never meant to touch. The fact that he even knew how the world functioned beyond the Ryomen family’s demands was already a stroke of luck.

Was it really so wrong that he didn’t know who Ryomen Atsuya was? What a joke.

The words burned at the back of his throat, sharp and ready. He wanted to snap back at Satoru, to argue, to spit something venomous just to wipe that knowing tone off his face but he swallowed it down. He didn’t want to hear Suguru accuse him of being difficult again. Not now. Not when every eye in the room already felt like a blade pressed to his skin.

“Ryomen Atsuya is the first son of the Ryomen clan head,” Uraume said calmly, stepping in before Sukuna could speak. “The only older brother of Ryomen Kaori. He was the rightful heir of the Ryomen family. Before he disappeared twenty years ago and was never found again. The world believed he was dead. Murdered by his own family.”

Even as Uraume explained, there was a trace of disbelief in his voice. He himself looked unsettled. To think that the so-called ‘boss’ Suguru often referred to, was actually the long-lost rightful heir of the Ryomen clan. Nearly a year of working alongside Suguru Geto, and never once had Uraume met the man called boss face-to-face.

Sukuna let out a laugh, sharp and mocking, the sound echoing too loudly in the room. As if this were all some elaborate joke they were playing on him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “This is all bullshit… you’re all joking, right?”

He turned toward Yuuji instinctively, searching for something—support, denial, anything. But what he saw on Yuuji’s face made his chest tighten painfully.

Yuuji already knew.

The realization hit harder than Sukuna expected.

“Oh?” Sukuna said slowly, his voice faltering despite himself. “Of course. Of course I’m the only one who doesn’t know who this man is.” His gaze stayed locked on Yuuji now. “Because even my own brother knew about this. Isn’t that right, Yuuji?”

The words came out strained, brittle, as if they might shatter the moment they left his mouth. Yuuji was still trying to process the fact that the uncle his mother and aunt had mentioned just a few days ago was now standing right in front of him. Back then, he had thought he would have time to search for him, time to gather information, time to understand what this man truly meant for their family. He had never imagined they would be forced into this meeting so quickly, without warning.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Yuuji turned toward Sukuna.

“I…” he started, but the words died in his throat before they could become anything meaningful. He couldn’t answer Sukuna’s question. Not without hurting him even more. Yuuji himself had only learned the truth three days ago. That was all the time he had been given to carry this secret. He had planned to tell Sukuna later when he knew more, when he could explain it properly, when Sukuna wasn’t already drowning in things he never asked for. But now, standing in this room, it was painfully clear that it was already too late.

“Oh, great!” Sukuna said suddenly, laughter tearing out of him, loud and unhinged, as if something inside his mind had finally snapped. “So what this is?” His eyes burned as he continued, every word sharper than the last. “Turns out I have an uncle? The rightful heir of the Ryomen clan—who ran away? And then, years later, my mother decides to send me to her evil family, thinking I could replace her bastard brother who fled their fucked up family? Was that your plan? To send me as a replacement?! Again?! This is sick!” His laughter echoed again, hollow and cruel, now looking at Yuuji and Uraume, “And on top of all that, my one and only brother, and my so-called bodyguard who swore loyalty to me, both knew about this and didn’t tell me a single fucking thing about the bastard!?”

“Hey! Watch your mouth!” Suguru snapped, pushing himself up from his seat. The two teenage girls rose as well, bristling instantly. Atsuya lifted both hands in a calming gesture, stepping slightly forward, silently urging them to stand down before Sukuna’s words ignited something worse.

Yuuji stood too. “Sukuna, it’s not like that,” he said quickly, desperation creeping into his voice. “I was going to tell you. I really was. It just… wasn’t the right time yet.” He reached out, trying to grab Sukuna’s arm, but Sukuna stepped back, pulling away before Yuuji could touch him.

“You know what?” Sukuna said coldly. “This is all bullshit.”

He turned sharply toward the door, already preparing to leave. Almost instantly, both Uraume and Satoru moved. Uraume stepped in front of the door, just a few steps in front of Sukuna, positioning himself there with clear intent, murmuring a quiet apology under his breath as he blocked Sukuna’s path. At the same time, Satoru moved with lightning speed, slipping past Yuuji and stopping just behind Sukuna, close enough that it was obvious he was ready to follow if Sukuna tried to bolt.

Yuuji remained frozen in place, his mind still struggling to catch up with everything that had just unfolded. This is too much.

“You’d better not run, Sukuna.” Suguru’s voice sliced through the room, sharp and unforgiving. “You agreed. You asked for this meeting. Don’t be a coward.”

Sukuna let out a harsh, broken laugh, the sound edged with something close to hysteria. “Oh! that’s rich coming from you,” he snapped, his voice climbing higher with every word. “Talking about cowardice—why don’t you tell that man to face his own problems instead of running away from his responsibilities and leaving the rest of us, especially me! to deal with the consequences!? Leaving me to deal with it all while he is living his best life away from the Ryomen!”

He raised his voice into a shout, veins bulging along his neck, his face burning red with fury. His eyes dragged themselves across the room, one face after another—Suguru, the twins, Uraume, Satoru, Yuuji—making sure every single one of them felt the sting of his words. He wanted it to hurt. He needed them to feel even a fraction of what he had been carrying alone.

“Oh my God, Sukuna,” Atsuya chuckled softly, almost amused, as if Sukuna’s rage were nothing more than background noise. “You really are just like your mother. Such a drama queen. And that mouth of yours—just as sharp as Kaori’s.” That casual dismissal hit harder than any insult. “Come on,” Atsuya continued, spreading his hands slightly in a placating gesture, his tone still infuriatingly calm. “Let’s talk like adults, shall we?”

“What exactly is there to talk about?” Sukuna shot back immediately. “You want me to work with you? The root of every single problem in my life?”

“No,” Atsuya replied, his voice steady, unshaken. “That’s not what I want. I just want to help. I want to make up for everything I neglected. I’ve been hiding for long enough. I know, that’s why I’m here now. I want to make it right.”

Sukuna scoffed, bitterness twisting his expression. “Why now, huh?” he demanded, his voice dropping into something raw and strained. “Don't you think it's too late?.” The words settled heavily in the room, heavier than his shouting.

“No. It has to be now.” Atsuya’s voice was steady, stripped of its earlier lightness, every word sounding like something he had rehearsed for years. “I’ve been planning this for a long time, Sukuna. Ever since I found out your mother was pregnant with both of you, I tried to stop the Ryomen family. I tried to interfere, to dismantle them before they could tighten their grip around you.” He inhaled slowly, as if bracing himself against memories he would rather leave buried.

“I failed,” Atsuya continued, unflinching. “More than once. And every failure cost me people—people who were close to me. People I couldn’t protect.” His gaze sharpened. “You know how the Ryomen clan operates. You know that better than anyone. You know exactly how dangerous they are, how merciless they are.”

His eyes shifted then, moving deliberately—first to Suguru, then to the twin girls seated beside him, and finally to everyone else in the room, as if drawing strength from each of them. “But now it’s different. Now I have the resources, the network, the leverage I didn’t have before. I have everything I need to bring them down. And I have you.” Atsuya straightened slightly. “This is the right moment. The only moment. And I won’t waste it.”

Sukuna let out a laugh once again, sharper and hollow, the sound scraping his own throat. The absurdity of it all pressed down on him until it felt suffocating. His entire life—every bruise, every command, every night spent surviving—reduced to someone else’s long-awaited plan. A grand strategy. Perfect timing. What a fucking joke.

He turned fully toward Atsuya, pointedly ignoring Uraume standing near the door and Satoru lingering behind him like a shadow that refused to leave. “So what happens if I say no?” Sukuna asked, his voice rising with bitter challenge. “What then? You force me to cooperate? Just like they did?” His smile twisted into something cruel. “How very Ryomen of you. Truly. Grandma would be proud of you.”

“Oh, no,” Atsuya chuckled, replied calmly, unfazed. “If you refuse, I’ll ask Yuuji instead. He’s the most reasonable alternative.  I’m sure he’ll say yes.”

And with that once again the room seemed to tense all at once.

Atsuya knew exactly what he was doing. Bringing Yuuji into it wasn’t desperation—it was a contingency plan he’d prepared long ago. Yuuji was kind, open, a little naïve perhaps, but Atsuya knew better than to underestimate him. The boy adapted quickly. He survived.

Sukuna’s expression snapped into something dangerous. “Yuuji doesn’t know anything,” he said, his voice low, vibrating with restrained fury. “If you throw him into the Ryomen without preparation, he won’t last until sunrise.”

It wasn’t an insult. It was the truth.

As much as Sukuna hate it, the truth was there. If they wanted to destroy the Ryomen clan from the inside, they needed Sukuna. Because Sukuna knew everything—the hierarchy, the hidden channels, the unspoken rules, the dirty businesses hidden behind respectable fronts. It moved through that family like a living organism.  Sukuna knew how they organized, how they worked and punished, how they erased people without leaving a trace. He knew how they laundered blood into money and silence into loyalty. He knew the rules because those rules had been beaten into him. He wished he didn’t. But that knowledge was carved into him, buried beneath his skin, threaded through his veins, flowing through every cell of his body whether he wanted it there or not.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Atsuya said calmly, almost reassuringly. “I already have a plan for that.” His gaze never left Sukuna’s face as he continued, his tone measured but unmistakably firm. “So what will it be? Do you want to stay and hear how we’re going to do this properly, step by step? Or do you want to walk out, and I’ll explain everything to Yuuji instead?”

The choice hung heavy in the air. The two Ryomen men stared at each other, eyes locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to be the first to look away.

“Sukuna, please…” Yuuji’s voice broke through the tension, soft and pleading, and it hit Sukuna hard. It dragged him back to the night before—to Yuuji crying, apologizing over and over again, shoulders shaking as if he were trying to hold himself together with sheer will alone. Hearing that same tone again made Sukuna’s chest ache, sharp and familiar. Because no matter how angry he was, no matter how betrayed he felt, Sukuna knew one thing with painful clarity that he could never leave Yuuji alone in a den filled with corrupt, ruthless people like them. Not when Yuuji didn’t understand the depth of their cruelty. Not when the Ryomen world would swallow someone like Yuuji whole.

“Start talking,” Sukuna finally said. The words came out flat, resigned, but they carried the weight of his decision. He moved to stand beside Yuuji, who remained seated across from Ryomen Atsuya, his posture tense and uncertain. Behind Sukuna, Satoru stepped closer, close enough that Sukuna could feel the heat of his presence at his back. The hairs on his neck prickled, irritation and awareness mixing in an uncomfortable way.

Satoru stood there like a shield, solid and unyielding, as if ready to step in at the slightest hint of danger.

As if Sukuna needed protecting.

And so Ryomen Atsuya began to speak. The man laid everything out in painstaking detail, his voice steady and controlled, as if he had rehearsed this explanation a thousand times over the years. He started from the very beginning—from the moment the idea for this plan first took shape in his mind, the day he received news of his younger sister’s pregnancy.

Growing up in the Ryomen household, the two of them had only ever truly had each other. There were no real friends, no safe circles outside the family; only lessons, expectations, and the constant weight of being Ryomen. Atsuya and Kaori were inseparable as children, bound together by shared isolation and a mutual understanding that no one else could give them.

As they grew older, however, a quiet distance began to form. Atsuya became increasingly consumed by his own world. While Kaori, who had always found a strange comfort in her status as a Ryomen, leaned into that life instead. She enjoyed the privileges: the power, the money, the shopping, the overseas trips, the illusion of freedom that money and status could buy. Their bond never truly broke, but responsibility became a wedge between them.

And as Atsuya stopped attending the clan’s private lessons, skipped meetings with the elders, and refused to help their parents with the family’s business, the pressure he avoided fell squarely onto Kaori’s shoulders. Resentment followed. Arguments became frequent, sharp, and unresolved. And in the end, Atsuya’s rebellion reached its breaking point. He chose to run, to disappear entirely, leaving Kaori behind to face the Ryomen family alone, a choice that would haunt him long after he was gone.

Ryomen Atsuya was not an ordinary man. He was known, at least among those who knew of his existence at all. For his strength and his sharp intellect. Even at the age of twenty, when he escaped the iron grip of the Ryomen family, he had managed to carve out a place for himself in the world, a safe haven that no one had been able to trace. The life he had built in hiding, the network of people he trusted, and the fact that he had remained unseen for decades were proof enough that he was not someone to be underestimated. Ryomen Atsuya was a legend in a world known only to a select few, a man who lived as a shadow, moving quietly beneath the surface of everything.

When he heard about the pregnancy through one of his most trusted informants, he made a decision. He reached out to his sister in secret, ensuring that no one else—especially the Ryomen clan—would know of their communication. He told her about his plan, piece by piece, sharing information he had gathered and explaining what he intended to do. He spoke of the risks, the timing, and the necessity of patience. According to Atsuya, his sister had listened and then agreed. Not only that, she supported him fully.

The plan was simple in its cruelty and precise in its execution. Atsuya would remain hidden for several more years. If his sister’s child turned out to be a boy, all the better. He would wait until the Ryomen clan inevitably laid claim to Kaori’s child, declaring them as a successor and parading them as proof of their bloodline’s continuity. And at that exact moment—when the clan’s eyes were fixed on the next generation—Atsuya would return. He would reappear to claim his rightful position as the eldest heir.

Atsuya knew, in Japan, especially a traditional clan like the Ryomen, such a revelation would not merely cause unrest; it would spark scandal. Questions would be raised, legitimacy would be challenged, and cracks would begin to form in the carefully maintained façade they presented to the world. Their reputation would take a hit, their businesses would tremble, and their foundations—while not immediately destroyed—would be shaken hard enough to make them vulnerable.

At the same time, Atsuya and his sister would expose the truth behind the Ryomen family’s dirty dealings. With the support of allies who had been standing quietly at their side all along, they would bring everything into the light and dismantle the clan piece by piece, until there was nothing left to protect, nothing left to hide.

However, after years of plan, everything he had built so carefully collapsed in an instant. All of that hope was crushed the moment the people closest to him were taken away. Atsuya lost his partner—his friend, his lover, someone who had meant everything to him—murdered by Ryomen enforcers after someone leaked their plans.

The clan did not hesitate. They never did. Almost at the same time, his father died as well, and his mother—crueler, colder, and far more ruthless than his father had ever been—seized control of the Ryomen clan without resistance. She became the absolute authority, a figure Atsuya described not as a parent, but as something closer to a demon wearing human skin.

After that, the pressure from the Ryomen clan intensified beyond anything he had anticipated. Years passed, and Atsuya could no longer contact his sister without being discovered. Every attempt carried deadly risks, risks he could no longer afford because in the aftermath of his lover’s death, he was left with four children to protect. Four lives depended on his ability to stay hidden, to stay alive. Any mistake, any careless move, would have cost them everything. The plan he had once built together with Kaori, the future they had whispered about in secrecy, shattered completely under the weight of blood, loss, and survival.

Silence settled heavily over the room as Atsuya finished speaking. The shift in mood was unmistakable, thick and suffocating. Suguru Geto clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles along his face stood out, his gaze dark and unreadable. The twin girls beside him no longer looked detached; their expressions had softened, eyes clouded with something painfully close to grief.

Ah.

So those children he had mentioned…

They were them.

Sukuna didn’t comment on any of it. If there was anyone in that room who could truly relate to what Atsuya had gone through, it was him. Sukuna understood loss—understood what it felt like to have family, to have people you cared about, ripped away without mercy. He understood betrayal by those closest to you, understood what it meant to grow up under the crushing pressure of the Ryomen name, and to run not because you were weak, but because you wanted a life that was normal, quiet, and your own. Atsuya’s story didn’t feel foreign to him. It felt uncomfortably familiar.

Atsuya’s story continued, moving forward several years later, to the moment he finally prepared to put his plan into motion again and tried to contact Kaori again. That was when the news reached him—his younger sister had been in an accident years ago. She hadn’t survived, along with his husband and father in law. Hearing that, Atsuya decided he could no longer disturb what remained of her family. He believed Kaori’s loved ones had already suffered enough because of him and the Ryomen name. 

So this time, the plan shifted. He placed Kenjaku inside the Ryomen family as a spy, intending to work alone, without ever involving Kaori’s children. And little did he know, it was during that period that Atsuya learned from Kenjaku, that Sukuna had been taken in and made to live there as his replacement. The realization crushed him. Guilt settled deep in his chest. Guilt for allowing his sister’s child to be sacrificed in his stead.

From there, the plan changed again. This time, Atsuya focused solely on getting Sukuna out of that house. It was never easy. The Ryomen clan’s reputation for power and control existed for a reason. Every attempt failed. Sukuna was guarded too closely, and much of his life was spent aboard, where Atsuya had few connections, making any direct action nearly impossible.

Then came the betrayal—again. Atsuya had never imagined that Kenjaku, his own child, would turn against him and choose the wrong path while maintaining his disguise within the clan. Kenjaku had always been ambitious, always hungry for power and authority. Atsuya had believed that placing him there would teach him restraint, perhaps even change him. He was wrong. Terribly wrong. Because what he gets instead is betrayal. Kenjaku refused to help him get Sukuna out of the Ryoumen. He started to rebel, going against the plan. And eventually, he lost all contact with Kenjaku as that kid started gaining more power in the Clan. Now, not only he should go destroy his own clan, he also had to fight with his own child.

Suguru let out a bitter smile when his twin’s name was mentioned. Satoru watched closely as Suguru’s expression shifted, anger bleeding through every line of his face. A thought crossed Satoru’s mind then, sharp and uneasy—was all of this connected to Suguru’s disappearance back then?

“If I go on and explain what my real plan is,” Atsuya said calmly, “Can I trust all of you not to betray me later?” His gaze moved slowly around the room, weighing each person in turn, before stopping on Gojo Satoru, who stood directly behind his nephew. “And you, Gojo. Can I trust you?” he continued. “You are the future head of the Gojo clan, after all. I don’t want any of this coming back to bite me.”

Satoru understood exactly what position he was being placed in. The moment he had agreed to let Sukuna stay at his apartment, he had already crossed the line and stepped into this mess whether he liked it or not. Whatever Atsuya thought of him didn’t really matter anymore. Somewhere along the way, Satoru had made up his mind. He wanted to help Sukuna. And Yuuji, too. 

Yuuji was his friend, and Sukuna… Sukuna, strangley now become someone he couldn’t bring himself to turn away from. Besides, he had never felt particularly loyal to the Gojo clan to begin with. He hated them, their politics, their suffocating traditions. The Ryomen clan had been their enemy for generations anyway. From Satoru’s perspective, this situation didn’t disadvantage him in the slightest. Even if the clan found out and tried to go against him, what could they really do? Satoru was their strongest asset, their highest authority, the one holding the reins. In the end, he could do whatever he wanted.

“Of course,” Satoru said without hesitation, his voice firm and unwavering. “I won’t betray Sukuna or Yuuji.”

For a brief moment, the room fell silent again, heavy with the weight of that promise.

Atsuya gave a slow, deliberate nod. “You’d better keep your word, Gojo,” he said evenly. “Because if I find out you do anything that compromises this plan and ends up putting my children in danger—including Yuuji and Sukuna—I will kill you with my own hands.”

“The same applies to you, Ryomen-san,” Satoru replied without missing a beat. He met the older man’s gaze head-on, his tone just as cold. “If this plan fails and causes harm—if it even ends with Yuuji or Sukuna getting hurt—I’ll be the one who kills you.” Satoru Gojo was not someone who could be threatened without returning the favor.

While the others in the room swallowed hard at the exchange, tension thick in the air, Sukuna merely scoffed. He could understand Satoru being willing to kill for Yuuji—that much made sense. But for Sukuna? That was laughable. There was no way Gojo Satoru would go that far for someone like him, he's just Yuuji’s twin, nothing more. 

As if Sukuna needed anyone to protect himself. As if he hadn’t survived this long on his own. If he was still standing now, it was because of himself—no one else.

“Alright,” Atsuya said at last, shifting in his seat. He placed both hands on the table, his posture settling into something more businesslike. “Sukuna, I’ll be sending you several files you’ll need to read and study before you go back there. Don’t worry, I’ll do it in stages, so you can still manage your responsibilities as a university student.” His gaze then moved to Yuuji. “Yuuji, I want you to start taking over the Itadori business and learning how it operates. If you handle your role well, you’ll gain enough influence to support Sukuna when the time comes.”

Atsuya paused, drawing in a breath before continuing. “I’ve already gathered substantial evidence—embezzlement, money laundering, even murder. Every illegal act the Ryomen clan has committed over the years, I have it all. Not much, that's why we need Sukuna to look more of it in the files for more evidence.” His voice remained calm, almost detached. “When it's done. I’ll release the information to the public gradually. I have contacts within central law enforcement I can trust to process these cases. Of course, the Ryomen clan has their own people embedded in the system who will try to shut this down. That’s why our first move is to change public perception.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Public pressure moves the authorities. Once the public turns against the Ryomen, their power will weaken. That’s when we insert Sukuna and take control from the inside. So our first step is simple: draw the public's attention to The Ryomen's illegal business and make them stand on our side.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to do that?” Yuuji finally spoke up, breaking the silence he had kept for so long.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Atsuya replied calmly, as if the answer were already settled. “I have a plan in place. Two weeks from now, I’ll contact you again, and we’ll meet to discuss the details.” His gaze swept across the room. “For now, your only job is to follow my instructions. Sukuna, you study the files I send you. Yuuji, you begin taking over the Itadori business and learning how it works. As for the rest of you—” his eyes lingered on Satoru, Uraume, and Suguru, “—your only task is to protect Sukuna wherever he goes. If we lose Sukuna, we lose any chance of destroying the Ryomen clan.”

“And when do I have to go back there?” Sukuna asked, his voice catching despite himself.

“Oh, relax, kid. That won’t be anytime soon,” Atsuya said lightly. “Only after public opinion and the law are firmly on our side will I allow you to return. We’ll expose their crimes one by one, slowly, carefully. After that, there will be a few things you’ll need to do as the legitimate heir of the Ryomen family—and that’s when you’ll go back. But that’s later.” He smiled faintly. “So for now, just live your life. Enjoy it, okay?”

Sukuna nodded, understanding. “Alright. Then can you at least speed things up and find me a new place to live?”

Atsuya hummed thoughtfully. “Ah, about that. For the time being, it would be best if you stayed at Gojo’s place, for an unspecified amount of time.”

“You’re joking,” Sukuna said flatly.

“Not at all.”

“I can’t stay there for long. Gojo will eventually get—”

“I’m perfectly fine with it,” Satoru cut in, flashing a wide grin as he offered his entirely unrequested opinion. Sukuna shot him a look and scoffed, irritation clear on his face. Seeing that, Atsuya smiled in return at Satoru and gestured between them, as if to say, See? No problem at all.

“Whatever,” Sukuna muttered, giving up the argument. But he swore to himself that the moment he had enough money, he would leave Gojo’s apartment without a second thought.

Yuuji spoke up again, the concern unmistakable on his face. His posture straightened as if he were forcing himself to be brave, but the tension in his eyes betrayed him. “So… let’s say this plan actually works,” he said slowly. “I really don’t want Sukuna to ever be dragged back into the Ryomen family’s world.” His jaw tightened. “So, let's say this plan works, then who’s supposed to lead the clan in the end? Because I don’t want Sukuna to do it.” His expression was serious, brows drawn together as he thought hard, clearly trying to reach a concrete answer instead of leaving the future hanging in uncertainty.

Atsuya let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before responding. “You don’t need to worry about something that far ahead, Yuuji,” he said calmly. “But there’s one thing I can promise you.” He lifted his gaze, voice firm. “I won’t force you or Sukuna to take that position. Not now, not ever. I won’t repeat the mistakes I made in the past.”

There was a brief pause before he added, almost casually, “Besides, I’m still here. And so is Suguru.”

“Huh? Why me?” Suguru immediately protested, his reaction sharp and instinctive. “I don’t want that either!”

Atsuya turned to him with a scowl that was more fond than angry. “Hey, you’re my son. Of course if it’s not me, then it’ll be you, idiot.”

“But, Dad, I really don’t want to!” Suguru shot back, visibly irritated. “I want to continue my studies, you know!”

His complaints were met only with Atsuya’s loud, unapologetic laughter, clearly amused by his son’s reaction. Satoru watched the exchange in silence, feeling oddly out of place. Suguru had never gone into detail about his family or their lineage, so seeing him like this—arguing openly, interacting so naturally with his father—felt unfamiliar. Almost surreal. It was like meeting Suguru all over again, stripped of his usual composure. Meanwhile, Yuuji tilted his head, confusion written plainly across his face as he glanced between Suguru and the two girls who had remained glued to their phones the entire time.

“Wait,” Yuuji said slowly, squinting. “Does this mean… we’re cousins?”

Suguru’s face twisted instantly in discomfort. “Not blood-related,” he answered quickly, as if the idea alone made his skin crawl. The thought of being related to Yuuji—or worse, Sukuna—clearly unsettled him. It was written all over his expression. Sukuna, for his part, returned the sentiment without hesitation, shooting Suguru a look filled with open disdain, as though the idea of sharing family ties with Suguru Geto was just as repulsive to him.

The room fell into an awkward silence, thick with unspoken tension and clashing personalities—each of them realizing, in their own way, just how tangled this situation truly was.

As expected of someone as naturally extroverted as Yuuji, he didn’t stay quiet for long. Not even five minutes had passed before he was already talking animatedly with Suguru and the two girls, his voice bright, his gestures lively, easily filling the room. Introductions turned into casual conversation, and casual conversation quickly became light laughter. Mimiko and Nanako—if Sukuna hadn’t misheard—were both second-year high school students. They were Suguru Geto’s younger sisters, and also Kenjaku’s. Daughters of Atsuya’s lover from her previous marriage, they had been taken in by Atsuya the moment the police declared their mother dead, her body discovered inside their apartment. From that point on, they had lived together under the same roof, becoming a family in every sense of the word.

Watching them interact like this—laughing, chatting, moving so easily around one another as if this were nothing more than a normal Sunday gathering—made Sukuna’s skin itch painfully, the sensation sharp and unbearable. It felt as though thousands of needles were pricking him from the inside, his nerves screaming, his body reacting violently to something he couldn’t fully identify. Heat spread under his skin, his hair standing on end, his head and heart burning as if they were about to burst at the same time from holding back emotions he didn’t even know how to name.

Was it anger?

Disappointment?

Jealousy?

Even Sukuna himself couldn’t tell.

How could they behave as though everything that had happened until now was insignificant? As if none of it carried any weight?

From everything Sukuna had learned today, from the fragments of truth that had been laid bare in that room, they shouldn’t have been fine. They shouldn’t have been laughing so freely. They should have been angry. They should have been grieving. They should have been drowning in resentment, in hatred, in unresolved pain. Yet here they were, acting as if nothing had ever gone wrong, as if the past hadn’t torn people apart and left scars that never truly healed.

What about his father and mother, both gone from this world? What about his grandfather, who had despised him so deeply that even death hadn’t softened that hatred?

What about the seven years Sukuna had spent living with his grandmother—the cruelty masked as discipline, the suffocating rules, the darkness she had forced him to endure again and again?

And Kenjaku. What about the things he did to Sukuna those years ago?

The realization alone made his stomach churn violently. That insane psychopath—the one who had taken pleasure in torturing him, breaking him down piece by piece—was his cousin. The thought made Sukuna feel sick, nausea rising in his throat until he had to swallow hard just to keep himself from vomiting.

So why? Why was everyone acting as if none of that mattered?

Was he overreacting, just like they had always told him?

Was he complaining too much?

Was Sukuna the one who was wrong?

And if that were true… Did that mean he really deserved everything that had happened to him? 

The laughter continued around him, warm and alive, filling the space as though nothing was broken, while Sukuna sat there in complete silence—alone inside a storm no one else seemed to notice, let alone acknowledge.

Sukuna didn’t truly understand what was happening anymore. His mind felt sluggish, as if it were lagging behind reality, struggling to process everything that had been revealed to him all at once. The fact that he had an uncle who had run away. The fact that his own mother had hidden all of it from him—hidden the truth about everything, the connections, the rot that had always existed beneath the surface. She lied to him. And now, the most bitter realization of all, that he was expected to cooperate with his uncle, this very man who had once treated him as a replacement, disposable, just so he could be freed from all of this. Just so he could have something as simple, as ordinary, as a normal life—like any other child?

His hands clenched into tight fists. Sukuna wanted to hit something. Hit someone. Anyone. Anything. The urge burned beneath his skin, violent and uncontrollable, like pressure building until it was ready to explode. But what would be the point? It would be useless. It always was. Everyone would just get angry at him, tell him he was difficult, temperamental. They would say he was too sensitive, that he was overreacting, that he was always creating unnecessary drama. In the end, he was only needed to fulfill his role. That was how it had always been. To be useful to them. To serve a purpose.

He is just a tool. In the end, Sukuna would be nothing more than bait—an expendable tool, tossed around wherever it benefited them most. He wasn’t even sure that if this plan succeeded, he would truly be free.

What did freedom even mean? 

He couldn’t even sleep peacefully at night. Not really. His body never fully relaxed, his mind never shut down. Panic still clawed at his chest whenever memories of his life in the Ryomen clan surfaced, whenever the past dragged him back into suffocating darkness he could never quite escape.

But who cared?

It didn’t matter, did it?

Sukuna still had to do it. Whether it was for himself or for Yuuji, he had no choice but to go through with it. Whether he liked it or not. Whether he wanted to or not. He had to do it.

The blood flowing through his veins, the name Ryomen carved deep into his very identity—those were things he could never change. The fate he carried had never belonged to him in the first place. It was something his family had decided long before he ever had a say in it. And no matter how hard he tried to resist, no matter how desperately he wished otherwise, that truth clung to him like a curse he would never be able to wash away.

“For the remaining details, we’ll discuss them two weeks from now,” Atsuya said, his tone measured, as though this were nothing more than a business arrangement scheduled neatly on a calendar.

“If we’re done here,” Sukuna said flatly, already turning away, “I’m leaving.”

A hand caught his arm. He didn’t resist at first. He assumed that it was Yuuji, and the familiarity of that thought alone was enough to keep him still. But he was wrong. Ryomen Atsuya pulled him into an embrace.

And everything happened in a split second.

Sukuna reacted on pure instinct, shoving the body away from him with force before it could fully close the distance. Atsuya stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance as he was pushed away. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor echoed sharply in the room.

“Don’t touch me.” Sukuna’s voice shook despite himself, the words tearing out of his throat before he could stop them. He hated being touched. Hated the closeness, the pressure, the way it made his skin crawl. And to be touched like that—embraced—by the very person whose existence had unraveled his life piece by piece made bile rise in his throat. His head spun, nausea rolling through him in waves, his body screaming for distance, for escape.

It felt like his skin didn’t belong to him anymore. Like he wanted to tear it off, claw his way out of his own body, anything to stop the sensation crawling beneath his flesh.

The room went deathly quiet.

Sukuna stood there rigid, breath uneven, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His gaze burned with a mix of fury, revulsion, and something dangerously close to panic. For once, no one spoke. In that silence, it became painfully clear that whatever Atsuya had intended in that moment, he had crossed a line Sukuna could never tolerate.

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.” Atsuya lifted both hands slowly, palms facing outward in a clear gesture of surrender, attempting to de-escalate the tension that had begun to coil thickly in the air.

The room remained frozen.

Everyone stared at Sukuna as if they had just witnessed something volatile, something dangerous they hadn’t been prepared for. Yuuji was the first to react—he pushed himself up from his seat, half a step forward, instinctively reaching out as though he might need to catch Atsuya if the man actually fell. Suguru and his two younger siblings moved faster, simply because they were closer. They steadied Atsuya by the arm and shoulder, helping him regain his balance even though, objectively, the man was perfectly fine. The entire display felt excessive.

“Didn’t need to be such an asshole, Sukuna,” Suguru said coldly, his eyes sharp with barely concealed contempt as they locked onto him.

Sukuna’s jaw tightened.

“Listen,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging beneath his skin. “Just because I agreed to go along with this doesn’t mean I have to pretend I’m part of whatever family reunion fantasy you’re trying to build here. Let’s keep it simple, we do our jobs, we maintain no unnecessary contact, and we skip the sentimental bullshit. We’ve done just fine as strangers until now. Let’s keep it that way.” He turned on his heel, shoulders rigid and spine like a steel rod, already mentally halfway out the door. Before he could take another step, Suguru’s voice cut through the room again.

“Just fine?” Suguru scoffed. “Strangers? You ungrateful little shit! Do you have any idea who helped erase your trail after you ran away a year ago? Who helped you pull off that pathetic excuse for a disguise and keep your identity hidden from Kenjaku and your grandmother all this time? Who?!” His voice rose, emotion finally breaking through his composure. “I swear, if it weren’t for my father, I wouldn’t have lifted a finger for you.”

Sukuna stopped. Slowly, he inclined his head, looking back over his shoulder with a gaze that could wither bone.

“Did I ask you?” he asked quietly. “Did I ever once ask any of you for help?” The silence pressed in. “If the man you call your father wanted to atone for his sins,” Sukuna continued, making sure his voice sharp now, unyielding, “then that was his choice. Don’t expect gratitude from me just because he finally did what he should’ve done a long time ago.” And with that, Sukuna left.

The sliding door slammed open with more force than necessary, the sharp sound echoing down the corridor. Sukuna ignored Yuuji’s voice calling his name behind him, ignored the sound of hurried footsteps following close after. His vision blurred as moisture gathered in his eyes, his breathing turning shallow and uneven as he fought desperately to keep his composure intact. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His lower lip trembled, and he bit down on it hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood. Anything to anchor himself against the tears. He refused to let them see him broken. He refused to let them see him like this.

A hand suddenly grabbed his arm. “Hey—hey, slow down,” someone said, grip firm but not forceful. “You’re going to trip.”

Sukuna ripped his arm free and spun around, eyes blazing. “Leave me alone, Gojo.”

Satoru blinked, caught off guard but undeterred. “Let me walk you back, yeah? You’re heading to work?”

“Stop,” Sukuna snapped. “Stop acting like you care. It’s disgusting. It makes me want to throw up.”

Something flickered across Satoru’s face—a flash of genuine hurt, raw and unguarded.

“But I do care,” he said softly.

Sukuna laughed, short and hollow. “You’re just messing with me, aren’t you? This is some long-game revenge for what I did to Yuuji? You’re getting back at me for what I did to Yuuji? Because that’s the only explanation that makes sense for your behavior.”

“No, Su—”

“Oh, I get it now,” Sukuna interrupted, voice sharp with bitterness. “You’re planning to use me for your clan politics? That must be it. I knew it. You lot are all the same.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, a humorless laugh slipping past his lips. “Wow. Your mouth really is something, Sukuna.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly through the strands as he collected himself. When he looked back at Sukuna, his gaze was sharp, serious.

“And no, the answer is no. No, I'm not trying to get revenge. And no, I'm not using you for my clan politics.” he said firmly. “I’m not using you for anything. Got it?”

They stared at each other for one long minute. Searching for something they didn't even know. Hoping for something they didn't dare to name. “Just go, Satoru,” Sukuna said, exhaustion seeping into every syllable. His eyes flicked past him, toward the far end of the hallway. Satoru followed his gaze.

Suguru Geto stood there, near the entrance to the meeting room, watching them intently. His expression unreadable, his presence heavy, as though he were witnessing something he shouldn’t have, something that twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

The look made Sukuna’s stomach churn.

He turned and walked away, footsteps quick and purposeful. He was already late for his shift.

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Chapter Text

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De Luna Bar was only about three to five hundred meters away from Garden Palace. Suguru decided that this was where the conversation he had promised would take place. Satoru didn’t ask for his reasoning. He didn’t need to. If Suguru was still the same person he had known all those years ago, then the answer was obvious. It's because Suguru had never been good with silence, especially not the kind that settled in quiet cafés or pristine places like Garden Palace, where every word echoed too loudly and every pause demanded to be filled.

And De Luna Bar, a bar that offered what he needed. A loud and crowded and messy place, gave him something to hide behind.

Satoru didn’t resist being led there. He simply followed, hands in his pockets, long strides matching Suguru’s out of habit rather than intention. Truth be told, he was almost grateful for the choice. He wasn’t sure if he could do this without at least a glass of vodka to steady the erratic pounding in his chest. Whether that frantic rhythm was excitement or anger, he honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

Garden Palace glowed behind them as they stepped out into the street, all polished stone, soft lights, and manicured elegance that felt completely detached from reality. In contrast, Shibuya swallowed them whole almost immediately. Neon signs bled into one another, traffic crawled and surged in uneven pulses, voices overlapped endlessly, and the sidewalks were packed with people moving in every possible direction. Laughter, arguments, music leaking from open doors, the constant hum of a city that never learned how to rest—it all pressed in around them.

They walked shoulder to shoulder through the chaos without exchanging a single word.

Perhaps it was because, deep down, they both understood that this stretch of road led to a moment that should have happened nearly ten years ago. A conversation that had been delayed for almost a decade, left to rot in the space between unanswered calls and unexplained disappearances. Now that they were finally here, words felt fragile and dangerous.

The bar announced itself long before they reached the door. Heavy bass vibrated through the pavement beneath their feet, the music spilling out in thick waves every time someone entered or exited. Inside, the space was wide and packed to the brim.

The crowd was overwhelming in the way only a Shibuya nightlife bar could be. People from all over Japan, from all over the world, packed together in a blur of bodies and movement. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and expensive perfume, cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to clothes and hair, alcohol sharp and sweet at the back of the throat. Laughter rang out loudly, sometimes dissolving into shouting, sometimes into kisses pressed sloppily against flushed skin.

Multiple bartenders worked behind the long counter, moving with practiced efficiency, hands flying as they poured, shook, strained, and slid glasses across the polished surface. Suguru ordered first—a glass of whiskey, simple and clean. Satoru followed suit without much thought, asking for vodka, neat, with a slice of lime on the side. 

They settled at the bar table shaped like a half oval, choosing the far corner where it was marginally less crowded. They sat beside each other, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. At the opposite end of the bar, a couple was thoroughly absorbed in each other, whispering, laughing, fingers tracing familiar paths along skin that clearly knew every touch by heart.

Everyone else was either lost to the dance floor at the center of the room. Bodies moving under strobing lights or scattered across sofas and seating areas lining the walls and the upper floor, conversations blending into a constant, indistinct roar.

Despite the noise, despite the music pounding through the space, their position was perfect. The DJ booth was far enough away that they didn’t need to shout to be heard. The bar gave them just enough anonymity, just enough cover to finally speak.

Satoru wrapped his fingers around the cool glass when their drinks arrived, feeling the chill seep into his skin. He took a slow sip, letting the burn travel down his throat, grounding him. Beside him, Suguru stared into his own glass for a moment longer than necessary. He sat at the far end of the counter, jacket still on, shoulders slightly hunched forward. A glass rested in front of him, untouched. His fingers circled it absently, knuckles tense, as if he needed the cold surface to remind himself that he was still here.

Almost ten years of silence sat between them, heavy and unresolved, waiting to be broken.

Satoru drink again, he lifted his glass, took a measured sip but the alcohol did nothing to loosen the knot that had formed in his throat. Ten minutes had passed since their drinks were first placed in front of them, and still, neither of them had spoken. It was almost laughable. For years, Satoru had imagined this moment in fragments and flashes: the questions he would throw at Suguru without mercy, the accusations he would finally let loose, the explanations he would demand until his voice went hoarse. He had rehearsed them in his head more times than he could count. And yet now, with Suguru sitting right beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body through the thin space between their shoulders, not a single word would come out.

His throat felt tight, as if something invisible were lodged there, blocking everything he had stored up for nearly a decade. Maybe part of him was afraid that if he started talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Or worse—he was waiting. Waiting to see how Suguru would explain himself, what excuse he would offer, whether it would be enough to justify the silence, the disappearance, the years of unanswered questions.

Satoru wasn’t naïve. Over time, he had pieced together a rough outline of what might have happened back then, when Suguru vanished without warning. He could guess at the pressure of his clan, the family complications, the things Suguru never liked to talk about. But guessing wasn’t enough. He needed to hear it directly from Suguru’s own mouth, clearly, honestly. After everything, didn’t he at least deserve that? If Suguru had once decided that Satoru was someone he could leave behind without explanation, then now, meeting here again after almost ten years, Satoru deserved to know why. To know what made him so disposable.

They were already on their second glass when the silence finally cracked.

After the first swallow of his refill, Suguru let out a slow, careful exhale. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For leaving like that. For disappearing without explaining anything.”

His eyes stayed fixed on the glass in his hand as he spoke. His thumb traced absent circles through the condensation clinging to the surface, smearing the cold droplets as if he were afraid that if he looked up, he’d lose his nerve.

Satoru blinked, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he took another sip, staring straight ahead, his jaw tightening just enough to betray him. “That’s it?” he finally said.

Suguru’s grip on his glass tightened, knuckles paling. “No. I just—I’m sorry, S'toru,” he repeated, his voice strained now. “I really am. I’m sorry...”

Another laugh escaped Satoru, sharper this time, edged with something bitter. “Do you have any idea how long I waited?” he asked. His voice stayed deceptively calm, but there was tension coiled tightly beneath it. “At first, I thought you’d show up the next day. So I waited and waited. Then I thought, oh maybe next week you would show up. Or maybe you’d call. Explain why the actual fuck you had to leave like that.” He let out a breath through his nose, something close to a scoff. “But nothing. You were just… gone like that. Like I was nothing.”

He shrugged lightly, but the movement did nothing to soften the words. “That hurts, you know.”

Suguru’s head lowered further, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the moment had finally settled on him. His expression was drawn tight with regret, brows knit together, lips pressed into a thin line that trembled despite his effort to stay composed. There was no defense in his posture, no anger. Only something raw and aching, as though he were bracing himself for a blow he believed he deserved.

“If I had called you,” he said softly, almost to himself, “if I had explained… you would’ve asked me to stay.”

“And?” Satoru pressed, turning his head just enough to look at him.

“And I would have,” Suguru admitted, his voice barely above the music. “And I would stay. And then if I stay, I would have broken more things. My family. Myself. You too. We both would’ve been more broken than we are now. More than we were back then.”

Satoru stared at him like he grew another head. "What the fuck are you talking about? Don't just make excuses like that?"

"Oh, you know what I'm talking about, Satoru. You know how clans work. You know how your clan works. And I too know how they work. With Gojo on your back and Ryomen hunting me and my family down. That's not going to work. You know that." Suguru continued, "And we were only fourteen. We couldn't win the battle."

That was it—that was the moment something finally cracked.

“And who are you to decide that for me?” Satoru snapped, the restraint he’d been holding onto slipping at last. “You think what you did back then was better? You think it didn’t destroy me anyway?”

“I’m…” Suguru whispered.

“You think giving up on us was better?! And then what! Showing up almost ten years later and saying you’re sorry you think our relationship was not worth anything was better?!” Satoru continued, the words coming faster now, sharper. “You think leaving without even saying goodbye, without explaining the reason was the right choice?" Satoru laugh. His voice waver, "You’re cruel, Suguru.”

“I’m sorry.”

Satoru laughed again, there was no humor in it, only something brittle and fractured. He drained the rest of his drink in one swift motion and set the empty glass down harder than necessary, the dull clink lost beneath the music. “So, what was it? you decided I didn’t even deserve an explanation? You think I wasn't worth it?” he said coldly.

Suguru flinched, the reaction subtle but unmistakable. “No. Nothing like that. I'm just... I wasn’t thinking clearly, Toru.” he said, shaking his head. “Everything happened too fast. And by the time I wanted to call you, I thought…it was already too late. I thought that it was better that way. I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did!”

The words fell between them with finality.

Silence settled again, heavier than before, pressing down on both of them as the noise of the bar continued around them, uncaring. Music thumped, laughter rang out, glasses clinked, bodies moved but at that corner of the bar, time seemed to slow, leaving only the weight of everything that had been said, and everything that still hadn’t.

After a while, Suguru spoke. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care. You know how much I care about you, Satoru. You know that.”

Satoru didn’t look at him. “And that's supposed to make me feel better? That almost makes it worse, Suguru.”

“I know." Suguru played with his fingers. "I’m sorry.”

Another pause followed, thicker than the last. The noise of the bar rushed in to fill the space between them. It felt like standing on the edge of something fragile, knowing that one wrong word could send it shattering.

Finally, after four minutes of silence, Satoru let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand over his face, fingers dragging down slowly as if he were trying to physically pull himself together. “You know what pisses me off the most?” he said at last, his voice quieter than before, but no less sharp.

Suguru glanced up.

It was the first time he truly looked at Satoru’s face since they’d entered the bar, since he’d uttered that first apology. And for the first time in all the years he’d known him, Suguru saw it clearly. The hurt, laid bare on the face of someone who was always smiling, always light and bright. His bestfriend. His love. Satoru Gojo looked tired. Wounded. Stripped of the ease that usually shielded him from everything.

“I could’ve handled you leaving,” Satoru continued. “What I couldn’t handle was not knowing why.” His gaze stayed forward, unfocused, as if he were staring at something far beyond the bar. “I kept wondering if I’d missed something. If I’d said the wrong thing. If I did something wrong. Or if I hurt you.” His jaw tightened. “Or if I just… wasn’t enough.”

"No no no, Satoru. No," shaking his head hard Suguru's throat tightened painfully. “You were never the problem. Never. Please don’t say that. Please.” His voice wavered despite his effort to keep it steady. “It wasn’t your fault. It was never about you. The problem wasn’t you.”

Satoru let out a soft scoff. “Then, isn’t that why we’re here?” he said. “For you to finally explain what the actual problem was?” He turned slightly toward Suguru now, eyes sharp despite the alcohol. “Because I swear to God, Suguru, I’m this close to punch you again if you don’t explain it to me right now.”

At that, Suguru lifted his glass and drained it in one go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and drew in a deep breath, chest rising and falling as if he were bracing himself. As if he were gathering every ounce of courage he had left to give Satoru the explanation he had deserved all those years ago.

“You already know a little from Atsuya,” Suguru began. “My adoptive father.” He paused, eyes lowering again. “That year… that was the year my mother died.” His fingers curled unconsciously against the edge of the bar. “I had just left the apartment. Twenty minutes. That’s all it takes. Twenty minutes on my way to the subway to meet you.” His voice grew rough. “Then Kenny called me. He said mother had been found dead in our apartment.” His breath hitched. “The same apartment I’d left twenty minutes earlier.”

Suguru swallowed hard. “I don’t even remember dropping my phone while I ran like a madman. I didn’t care. I just ran. I ran and ran until I got home.” His voice broke, like it was scraping against something sharp inside him. “I don’t remember much after that. They said it was a shock. A trauma. Whatever you want to call it. All I know is that I was completely shattered that day. I don't remember much.”

Satoru listened.

He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t speak. He held his glass so tightly his fingers ached, knuckles pale, every muscle in his body coiled with restraint as Suguru continued.

Suguru told him how everything moved too fast after that. How they left the apartment almost immediately—him, Kenjaku, and his two younger sisters—before they could even speak properly to the police. Atsuya had already come for them, insisting it wasn’t safe to stay. That whoever had killed his mother wouldn’t stop there.

Satoru could picture it vividly. The confusion, the grief, and the fear. Being ripped away before you could even mourn. Losing a parent and being denied the space to fall apart. And he understood, painfully so. If their positions had been reversed, he knew he would’ve forgotten about a first date with a boyfriend of one month too. Survival would’ve come first.

After that, Suguru explained, they lived like ghosts for years. Homeschooling. Moving from place to place across Japan. Never staying too long, never leaving a trace. It wasn’t until Suguru turned sixteen that they finally settled somewhere but even then, it was still hiding. Still waiting. Because whoever killed his mother was still out there, and they were certain the danger hadn’t passed.

“For the first two years,” Suguru admitted quietly, “I thought about calling you. More than once. I wanted to explain. I really did.” He let out a slow breath. “But then Atsuya told us about the plan. About taking revenge on the Ryomen clan. And after that…” He shook his head. “You stopped being someone I allowed myself to think about. I don't think i deserve that.”

He gave a bitter smile. “I’m sorry for thinking that leaving you was the best option for both of us.” He hesitated. “It was just a brief first love—puppy love. Not that I didn’t care. I cared a lot. I liked you, just as much as you did. Maybe I still do. I don’t know.” His voice softened. “But I realized, once you’re involved in something dangerous, something tied to clan politics, I can't drag you into that. The Gojo clan is the strongest clan. I couldn’t risk destroying my father’s plan by tying myself to the Gojo family.”

And then came Sukuna.

Suguru spoke about discovering that Sukuna, the child of Atsuya’s little sister, had already fallen into Ryomen’s hands long before Kenjaku was ever sent there. How that realization changed everything. How it pushed everything else into the background. Including Satoru.

“I know that doesn’t excuse anything,” Suguru said quietly. “You deserve an apology from me for the rest of your life. Even in the next one, if that’s what it takes for you to forgive me, I will do it. What I did was cruel.” His voice trembled. “Especially knowing how we felt about each other back then.”

And now? Suguru honestly didn’t know how he felt anymore. Not clearly. But what he did know was that he wanted to fix this, at least enough to stand beside Satoru again as a friend. Whether Satoru would allow that… he didn’t know.

Throughout it all, Satoru said nothing.

He listened. Every word. Every pause. He didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, didn’t even drink again. When Suguru finally fell silent, the space between them felt impossibly heavy.

Satoru had always believed that no explanation would ever be enough. He had promised himself that if Suguru ever came back with reasons, he would listen but he would never forgive him. No matter what.

And yet now, with the truth laid bare, something inside him wavered.

Part of him felt sympathy. Grief for the boy who’d lost his mother and been denied the right to mourn. Another part of him burned with anger because if he had known, maybe he could’ve helped. He was a Gojo. He had power. But he also knew Suguru would never have asked. Never would have wanted that kind of help.

Still, damn it, it hurts.

It hurt for his friend. For his first love.

“So…” Suguru said at last, his voice barely audible beneath the music. “I’m sorry, Satoru. I know what I did was wrong. I left you. I didn’t even say goodbye.” He turned, finally meeting Satoru’s eyes. “You don’t have to forgive me. If I could go back, honestly… I would still make the same choice. Because I believe it was the best one. But I hope you understand. And maybe—maybe we can be friends again. Start over.”

Satoru let out a quiet laugh, half a huff. “Even after all this time, you haven't change one bit, have you Suguru? You've always asked a lot from me,” he said. “But I didn’t know you were shameless enough to ask us to go back to how things were.”

Suguru went completely still.

So this is how it ends, he thought distantly. Without realizing it, he held his breath, fingers curling tightly into his own palms where his hands rested in his lap. His knuckles pressed into the fabric of his pants as if grounding himself there might keep him from falling apart. His eyes burned, wetness gathering no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. He had known—he had known—that he had no right to expect forgiveness. He had known the odds of Satoru forgiving him were slim at best. Still, he hadn’t expected it to hurt like this. It's suffocating.

Was this how Satoru felt back then? The thought lodged itself painfully in his chest.

Suguru was so lost in his own spiraling thoughts that he didn’t notice Satoru watching him. The tall black barstool Satoru sat on had been turned fully toward him now, knees angled in Suguru’s direction. Satoru’s gaze lingered on the way Suguru’s hands were clenched tightly in his lap, the way his shoulders had drawn inward, the way he looked like he was only one breath away from breaking down completely.

Satoru Gojo couldn’t quite remember when, or how, his feelings for Suguru Geto had begun.

When he really thought about it, he hadn’t known Suguru for very long at all. Was it only one year? Two? It didn’t feel like just a year or two though. It felt as though he had known him for a lifetime—as if Suguru had been a constant shadow in his life since the very beginning.

Satoru had entered public school at twelve, finally stepping into something resembling a normal life after years of isolation and private tutoring. Back then, his world had been small and simple. He only had his bodyguards and tutors at his side all day. His parents was always busy.

The first real connection he formed was with Shoko Ieri, who became his closest friend, his constant. For a while, she was the only person who truly existed in that space with him.

Suguru Geto came into his life after that. And Suguru was the first person who ever challenged his ego.

As the only child of the Gojo family, Satoru had grown up accustomed to winning. Being the first for everything, being the best, the untouchable Gojo Heir. Though he had mellowed with age, the truth remained that as a kid, Gojo Satoru had been insufferable. He hated losing. He hated yielding. And he despised being second.

Suguru Geto was the first person to wound that pride.

The first to rank first in every subject. The first to stand at the top where Satoru believed only he belonged. Satoru Gojo loathed him for it—wholeheartedly, passionately. He began noticing Suguru everywhere: in the classroom, on the soccer field, in the library. Watching him without realizing that something else had begun to take root beneath that resentment. Something he didn’t yet have a name for.

The shift became undeniable after a group assignment forced them to work together.

Satoru found himself drawn in despite himself. Suguru wasn’t talkative, but when he spoke, he argued with Satoru as if it was a matter of life and death. He challenged him. Questioned him. Refused to bend. And somehow, that only made Satoru want his attention more.

The first time Satoru realized his feelings had crossed the line from rivalry into something far more dangerous was when Shoko pointed it out. He’d been painfully oblivious—almost laughably so. But then again, what did the world expect? He was a kid fresh out of homeschooling, raised as the sheltered heir of the strongest clan in Japan. Emotional literacy had never exactly been part of the curriculum.

Their first year was spent bickering at every opportunity, clashing whenever they crossed paths. And then, somewhere along the way, something shifted. They started sitting together in class and the school field. They're being forced, obviously. They have no choice but to play nice because the teacher wanted them to stop fighting and just be friends. Not that Satoru against that idea because honestly he enjoyed Suguru's accompany.

Shoko was always there too, because Satoru was deep in denial about what he felt. They sometimes went to the cafeteria together. Studied together. Slowly, steadily, they became inseparable. Everyone at school stared at them like they were an anomaly. Everyone except Shoko, who saw it coming from miles away.

By the second year, there was no pretending anymore.

What had once been shared moments during breaks turned into constant closeness. They sat together by the window, shoulders pressed together, heads leaning against one another. They fell asleep on each other’s shoulders during class. Even after school, they stayed together—kicking a ball around, or lying on the back field while Suguru read his novels aloud, the pages rustling softly in the quiet. It was as if neither of them wanted the day to end. As if separation was something to be feared.

Shoko had warned him once.

She told him that Satoru got attached too easily. That it was something he would have to confront someday. That while it could be a strength, it could also become a weakness. Something that could hurt him deeply. She’d even suggested he talk to a professional about it.

Back then, Satoru had laughed it off. He thought she was joking. He thought it wasn’t that serious.

Now, remembering it, he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe Shoko had been right all along. Satoru Gojo did form attachments too easily. He bonded with a sudden, startling depth, and once someone managed to take root in his life, he clung to them with everything he had. That version of Satoru was a rare gift—not everyone was allowed to see it—but for those who were, the connection became something permanent, something nearly impossible to undo.

Maybe he was like this because he'd been so isolated as a kid. He didn’t know the 'why' of it, but he didn't want to change, either. Satoru liked being close to people. He liked the feeling of someone belong to him, and him belong to them. He liked being part of someone’s life, and letting them become part of his. He liked caring deeply and being cared for in return.

And that was exactly why losing Suguru had hurt the way it did.

On the seventh day of June that year, six months before his fourteenth birthday, Satoru Gojo finally gathered the courage to confess his feelings to Suguru Geto.

It hadn’t been easy—nothing about it had been. There were countless nights he spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying scenarios over and over in his head. How do you confess to someone who is already your closest friend? How do you say it without ruining everything you already have? How do you risk losing the one person who matters the most?

Shoko had given him advice, as she always did.

One of the things she told him stayed with him the most: do whatever it is you truly want to make you happy. And if starting his first relationship with Suguru Geto was what he wanted and made him happy, then he should do it. There was nothing wrong with a teenager wanting something sincere, something innocent. No one would forbid a young boy from falling in love.

So, that day, they stayed late after school.

Instead of going home right away, they lingered in the empty classroom, the world outside already shifting toward evening. The curtains fluttered softly as the wind slipped in through the open windows, carrying with it the warmth of the late afternoon sun. Golden light spilled across the floor and desks, stretching long shadows that made the room feel quiet, almost sacred.

Satoru lay flat on his back across the desk where they usually sat together, arms resting loosely at his sides. His eyes were closed, lashes fluttering slightly as he focused on the feeling of the breeze brushing against his face, trying to calm himself. Right beside his head, Suguru sat on a chair, posture relaxed, a novel open in his hands.

Satoru couldn’t remember the title of the book—his mind was far too occupied for that. The cover blocked Suguru’s view of him completely, shielding Satoru from those sharp, observant eyes. He was grateful for it. If Suguru saw his face right now, he was sure his nerves would betray him immediately.

Thankfully, Shoko had left earlier. She’d excused herself with a casual wave, as if she instinctively knew what was about to happen and was deliberately giving Satoru the space he needed.

Alone now, the silence between them felt heavier, more intimate.

Without realizing it, Satoru’s hands curled into tight fists beside his body. His chest thudded painfully fast. Cold sweat gathered at his temples, sliding down until he could feel it brushing against the shell of his ear. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

He had never been this nervous before.

Not when meeting his family’s business partners. Not when facing his strict private tutor and their impossible exams. Not even when he made a mistake bad enough to earn his father’s punishment. His heart had never raced like this.

This feeling was entirely new.

It scared him.

This was the first time Satoru Gojo had ever felt this way about anyone.

“Hey… Suguru,” he said finally, hoping desperately that his voice didn’t betray the storm inside his chest.

“Hm?” Suguru responded softly, eyes still on the pages of his book, unaware of the moment he was about to step into.

Satoru swallowed.

“I was thinking..,” he said, forcing the words out before he could stop himself, before fear could take over completely. “I want you… to be my boyfriend.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and exposed, carrying everything Satoru had been too afraid to say out loud until now.

There was no answer. 

A long, heavy pause settled between them.

Too long.

And still, Suguru didn’t answer. No words followed Satoru’s confession—only the sound of the wind slipping through the open windows, brushing against the curtains and making them sway lazily back and forth. The fabric whispered softly, over and over, filling the classroom with a fragile, almost unbearable silence. Somewhere outside, the faint chirping of cicadas began to rise, a clear sign that summer was drawing closer.

Time stretched painfully thin.

Suguru remained silent for so long that Satoru started to feel his chest tighten. Then, suddenly, a sound broke through the stillness—a dull thud, something falling.

Satoru’s eyes flew open.

He turned his head, searching for the source of the noise, and that’s when he saw it. Suguru’s book had slipped from his grasp and now lay abandoned on the floor beneath their desk where Satoru had been lying moments ago. Suguru was staring at him.

Satoru slowly pushed himself upright, then shifted until he was sitting cross-legged on top of the desk, sitting directly in front of Suguru. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Suguru could hear it. Suguru still hadn’t said a word.

And their eyes met.

Satoru searched Suguru’s face for something—anything—but his expression was unreadable. He couldn’t tell what Suguru was thinking. He never could. Not now at least. Suguru Geto had always been far too good at that, far too good at keeping his emotions just out of reach, leaving Satoru guessing, second-guessing, spiraling.

Suguru’s eyes shimmered.

Satoru was certain of it now—those were tears, gathering thickly along the edges of his lashes, just waiting to fall if Suguru dared to blink. But he didn’t. He didn’t blink, didn’t speak.

Instead, Suguru smiled.

It was a wide, genuine, radiant smile—so bright that Satoru felt like his heart might actually stop. Even the warm orange light of the late afternoon sun pouring through the windows seemed dull compared to the glow in Suguru’s tear-filled eyes. The entire classroom faded into the background, as if the world itself had narrowed down to just the two of them.

Still without saying a single word, Suguru leaned forward and pulled Satoru into his arms.

It was the first real hug Satoru had ever received from someone.

Not a polite gesture. Not an embrace filled with expectations or hidden motives. It was firm and sincere, tight enough to steal the breath from his lungs. It was warm, so impossibly warm that the feeling spread through his chest and down to his fingertips, settling deep inside him.

Butterflies exploded in his stomach, fluttering wildly, their sensation radiating through his entire body.

That was the effect Suguru Geto’s embrace had on him that day.

Satoru didn’t know what the tears in Suguru’s eyes meant. He didn’t know that Suguru had wanted the same thing all along. That he, too, had been hoping for this moment, for this confession, for them to become something more.

But one thing was certain.

That hug alone was enough. It answered everything. As if a single embrace could render every word in the world unnecessary, as if nothing else needed to be said.

One hug had been enough to make the rest of the world irrelevant.

And that was why—now—seeing Suguru Geto in front of him with his shoulders slumped, his head lowered, and tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes, hurt Satoru more than he wanted to admit.

Because once upon a time, that same person had held him like he was everything. Like the entire world could be reduced to the space between their arms. 

Satoru swallowed hard.

The memory pressed painfully against his chest, blurring the present with the past. The warmth of that first embrace still lingered somewhere deep inside him, refusing to fade no matter how much time had passed.

That's why Satoru hadn’t meant a single word of that sharp remark seriously. Because deep down he knew that there was no version of reality where he truly couldn’t forgive Suguru Geto.

Yes, things would never be the same again because forgiveness didn’t mean erasing the past. It didn’t mean pretending nothing had happened, or foolishly believing they could slip back into what they used to be. Satoru knew that much.

Whatever they were now would never look like before, not after everything, not after years of silence, loss, and wounds left to rot without explanation. They were no longer just best friends, and they certainly weren’t lovers anymore. That chapter had closed the moment Suguru walked away without a goodbye.

But still.

Satoru missed him.

He missed his best friend with an ache that had never fully gone away, he missed Suguru with a persistent thrum of grief. No matter how loudly he’d laughed or how brightly he’d smiled in the years since. He missed Suguru’s presence in his life. The quiet arguments, the way Suguru challenged him without fear, the simple, steady fact of him staying. Satoru didn’t need to turn back the clock; he just wanted Suguru Geto to be a living part of his world again, pulse and all, rather than a figure frozen in the amber of memory.

Seeing Suguru like this hurt more than Satoru expected. Suguru sat there frozen, breath shallow, fists clenched tightly in his lap as if he were bracing for a blow. His shoulders were tense, his head slightly bowed, as though he’d already accepted rejection as the only possible outcome. His eyes were glassy, lashes trembling, and for a fleeting moment Satoru wondered if this was what he himself had looked like all those years ago, waiting for Suguru who never came.

Without another word, Satoru reached out.

His hand closed gently around Suguru’s, stilling the restless movement of fingers digging into fabric. The contact was careful but firm, warm enough to be undeniable. Suguru flinched at the touch, then slowly lifted his head. And confusion crossed his face.

And Satoru knew that this wasn’t the same Suguru he remembered from the past. Back then, the first and the only time Satoru had seen tears gather in Suguru’s eyes, they had been paired with a smile so wide and radiant it had made Satoru’s chest ache. Tears that came from overwhelming happiness, from relief, from something soft and hopeful.

Now those tears looked different. They were dull. Heavier. Weighted with regret and exhaustion, as if joy was no longer something Suguru allowed himself to feel. There was no brightness behind them. Only fear, and the quiet expectation of being pushed away.

Suguru parted his lips, clearly about to speak, to ask what this meant, to apologize again or pull his hand away but Satoru didn’t let him. Before Suguru could voice a single word, Satoru stood and pulled forward.

Then he wrapped his arms around him. The hug was sudden, but it wasn’t careless. Satoru wrapped his arms around Suguru’s back and held him tightly, decisively, as if anchoring him in place. For a brief second Suguru went completely still, breath catching in his throat, his body unsure of how to react.

And the dam broke.

He collapsed into the touch, he simply gave in to the hug. His hands came up, gripping Satoru’s clothes like he was afraid to let go, like this might vanish if he loosened his hold. His forehead pressed against Satoru’s shoulder, and his breathing turned uneven. Satoru held him just as tightly. He gave back what had once been given to him—the warmth, the reassurance. Just like that day when Suguru hugged him tightly in a wordless confession. It felt like they were worth the effort. That some things, no matter how broken they were, still worth holding onto.

“I was joking, you idiot,” Satoru muttered softly, his voice low and thick with emotion, spoken close to Suguru’s ear.There was a quiet, breathless huff that might have been a laugh. “Of course I forgive you.”

Suguru Geto once again broke down in Satoru’s arms.

A soft, shaky sob escaped his chest before he could stop it, and once it did, everything he had been holding back for years seemed to spill out all at once. His arms wrapped around Satoru’s body, returning the embrace with equal desperation, fingers clutching at Satoru’s clothes as if afraid this moment might slip away if he loosened his grip. The hug was tight, grounding, full of everything they had lost—years of absence, words never spoken, nights spent alone with memories that refused to fade.

They held each other like that, two old friends clinging to something familiar, quietly pouring their longing into the space between them.

Through his sobs, Suguru let out a weak, breathless protest, his voice muffled against Satoru’s shoulder. “That’s not funny, idiot.”

Satoru let out a small laugh in response but he didn’t loosen his arms. If anything, he held Suguru closer, as if trying to share the warmth he had once received from him, as if attempting to make up, even just a little, for the many years that had been stolen from them. His hand pressed firmly against Suguru’s back, steady and reassuring, a silent promise that he wasn’t going anywhere this time.

“But you should know,” Satoru said quietly after a moment, his voice lower now, more honest, “I’m still angry.” He pulled back just enough to speak, though he didn’t let go. “I forgive you, yeah—but I’m really, really mad about what you did. You should’ve told me, Suguru. You should’ve let me help.”

His voice wavered then, just slightly. He paused, swallowing hard, as if he were holding back tears of his own. “And… I’m sorry too,” he added, softer now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you were going through all of that. I wish I was there with you.”

Suguru’s grip tightened at those words, his shoulders shaking as he tried to steady his breathing. His sobs grew heavier, rawer, the kind that came from carrying too much for far too long. Satoru responded by gently rubbing his shoulder, slow and patient, giving him all the time in the world. He didn’t rush him. He didn’t say anything else.

Satoru knew, he was certain of it, that Suguru had never truly had a place to lay down all of this pain over the past years. And if that was the case, then Satoru was more than willing to offer his shoulder now, to be the place where Suguru could finally let everything fall apart.

Time slipped by almost unnoticed, stretching longer than either of them realized. A few people passing their corner of the bar cast curious, sideways glances at the sight of two grown men clinging to each other like that, but Satoru didn’t care in the slightest. Let them stare. It was none of their business anyway.

Eventually, Suguru’s breathing evened out. The tension in his shoulders eased, and with a quiet exhale, he finally loosened his arms and pulled away from Satoru’s embrace. He scrubbed at his face with the back of his hands, wiping away tears and the embarrassing aftermath of crying, clearly trying to compose himself. He straightened his posture afterward, as if sheer willpower could restore his dignity. There was no way he was going to look miserable next to Satoru Gojo—absolutely not. If anything, he had to look better than him. That was non-negotiable.

“…So,” Suguru said hesitantly, his voice still a little rough, eyes flicking up to Satoru’s face, “does this mean we can be friends again?”

Satoru snorted softly, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, yeah, Suguru. We can be friends again.”

And just like that, Suguru Geto smiled.

It was the same wide, radiant smile that used to light up Satoru’s entire world back then—though now, if Satoru were being completely honest, it looked just a little bit stupid. Fondly stupid. The kind of smile that made it impossible to stay angry for long.

“Great,” Satoru said, leaning back onto his barstool and pointing dramatically at Suguru. “Fyi, you’re paying tonight. I’m draining your wallet, Suguru. I’m not kidding. Bartender! Give me the most expensive drink you have.” He tilted his chin toward Suguru with a grin. “The idiot smiling next to me is covering everything.”

The bartender, who had clearly been watching them like an invested audience member at a dramatic soap opera, raised an eyebrow before chuckling and nodding.

From there, the atmosphere shifted completely.

The weight that had been suffocating them earlier slowly dissolved, replaced by something warmer, lighter. Two friends, who also happened to be ex-lovers, laughed and joked as if no time had passed at all. They talked about everything and nothing: Shoko and her new girlfriend Suguru didn’t know, they also talked about their old school memories, the novels Suguru had been obsessed with lately. They drank, leaned closer without thinking, brushed arms and shoulders. Shared space the way they used to.

Like old times.

Satoru wasn’t sure whether what he felt for Suguru now was the same as what he had felt back then. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t have an answer for that yet.

What he did know was that he wanted Suguru Geto back in his life.

---------------------------

Sukuna walked along the narrow sidewalk leading back to Satoru’s apartment, his footsteps echoing softly against the quiet concrete. The day was on the verge of rolling over into the next; the sky had long since darkened, and the streetlights cast pale, tired halos over the empty road. The neighborhood was unusually silent at this hour, the silence made every sound—his breathing, the rustle of his hoodie, the scuff of his shoes—feel too loud. His body ached with exhaustion, a deep, bone-weary fatigue that settled into his shoulders and lower back, yet he deliberately slowed his pace. He didn’t want to get Satoru’s apartment too soon. More than that, he didn’t want to run into Satoru. Not tonight.

The restaurant hadn’t even been particularly busy that day. If anything, it had been slower than usual. Still, Sukuna had insisted on staying longer, lingering after closing to help with cleaning and prep, volunteering himself until there was hardly anything left to do.

He had practically cornered Takahashi-san into giving him overtime every day, his voice calm but unyielding and asked to be paid earlier this month. The envelope she had reluctantly handed him earlier, now sat safely tucked inside the pocket of his hoodie, its presence a constant weight against his chest.

Earlier that evening, when Sukuna had finally gathered the courage to ask for an advance, he had done so with the promise that he would work overtime every single day from now on. Takahashi-san had refused him at first, firm and worried, insisting she would give him his salary but not the extra hours. But Sukuna was not Sukuna if he didn’t push back. He had argued quietly but relentlessly, refusing to back down, meeting her concern with stubborn resolve. In the end, the compromise had been reached on his terms.

Starting today, he would work overtime—every day, indefinitely. Because he needed it. He needed money to get out of his situation right now.

He would come in earlier than everyone else and leave later, helping clean, restock, and prepare. He wouldn’t just deliver food anymore; he would assist in the kitchen, handle the register, do whatever was needed. By the end of the night, his hands were sore and trembling from overuse. 

He looked at his finger. One careless moment while helping Takahashi-san prepare side dishes had earned him a cut from the knife—deep enough to draw more blood than he’d expected. Now, as he walked, Sukuna absently toyed with the tip of it, wrapped in a rough, makeshift bandage. The wound throbbed faintly, a sharp sting flaring whenever he pressed it even a little too hard.

The pain grounded him. He likes it. The pain. The control he had over it.

Maybe that was why he didn’t stop himself from pressing down again, again and again, jaw tightening as the sting bloomed under his skin. It made him feel tangible, something solid he could actually grasp, unlike the messy, uncontrollable wreck his life had become.

His tired legs kept carrying him forward, even as each step grew heavier than the last. Every so often, he kicked at small stones scattered along the sidewalk, sending them skittering into the darkness ahead of him. From now on, there would be no room for rest, no space to take things easy. He would have to work harder—much harder. His painting supplies were already running dangerously low, nearly depleted, and he would need to replace them by the end of the month if he wanted to keep painting at all. On top of that, there was the money he owed Satoru for living  at his place. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to pay him back. He refused to let that debt linger.

Then there was Yoru’s food, an expense he never once considered optional. And beyond that, the quiet but pressing need to start saving for a place of his own, somewhere small but safe, and for a new phone, because his old one was completely dead, stubbornly refusing to turn on no matter what he did. Sukuna didn’t want to be a leech on Yuuji or any of the others. He didn’t want to be seen as ungrateful, and he certainly didn’t want to depend on them. He would find his own place as soon as possible. He had to. Independence wasn’t just pride—it was survival.

The night air was sharp and fast tonight, cutting through the streets with unexpected force. At least it wasn’t raining, but the lingering mist clung to everything, damp enough that Sukuna could feel it seeping into his shoes and chilling the soles of his feet. His palms felt slightly wet as well, the moisture catching on his skin. He tugged his hat lower, tightening the fit to keep the warmth in and flipping his hood up. He pulled his arms tighter around himself, burying his hands deep into the pockets, and picked up his pace. 

His gaze stayed fixed on his feet as they moved, one step after another, and that made his mind drift back to that day.

The first time he met Gojo Satoru.

This place reminded him of that time, when Satoru called him Yuuji's twin. He said it so easily, so carelessly, as if the words were harmless. As if they didn’t tear something open inside Sukuna, drag him straight back into the dark places he had fought so hard to escape. That single, thoughtless comment had been enough to undo him. That night had ended with trembling hands, fractured sleep, and nightmares he hadn’t had in years.

It had taken him days just to recover, just to force himself to forget the images that had clawed their way back into his mind. Sukuna could only hope that living with Satoru wouldn’t drag those memories back to the surface. He was running on empty; he simply didn't have the strength left to battle nightmares every time he closed his eyes.

Looking at his life now, the irony was almost suffocating. He should have been running, he should have been miles away from Gojo Satoru. Instead, he was retracing his steps to the man’s front door. Living together. He was sharing his air, inhabiting his space. The thought coated his tongue with a bitter, metallic taste. This, all of this is such a silent joke he was too exhausted to actually laugh at.

Sukuna found himself scratching at his thigh without even realizing it. The itch crept under his skin—an irritating, insistent sensation, paired with a burning heat that spread the more he focused on it. He could already picture the skin there, flushed and raw. Red and ugly. Just like him.

He tried to stop, curling his fingers into his palm, forcing his hand away, but the more he thought about it, the stronger the urge became. He wanted to scratch until the skin broke again, until it bled. He had promised himself he wouldn’t do this anymore. He really had. But God, it was hard. Too hard.

Those wounds, that sharp, undeniable pain he got from digging his nails into his own skin had calmed him, just a little. It anchored him. The pain reminded him that he wasn’t there anymore, that he wasn’t trapped in that house, in that clan, in that darkness. His life now, as messy and unbearable as it felt, was real. The pain proved it. It hurt, yes, but it made him feel real.

It was almost absurd. Funny, in a dull, hollow way. He should have avoided Satoru after that. Anyone sensible would have. And he had tried, really really tried to keep his distance, tried to stay out of his orbit. Yet somehow, instead of running, Sukuna had ended up here, sharing a living space with the very person who had unknowingly triggered his worst memories. As if his life had always worked like this, circling back to the things that hurt him most, until it became just another part of his routine.

And, as if the night hadn’t already exhausted every last ounce of patience he had left, things managed to get worse.

He had forgotten to ask for the passcode to Satoru’s apartment door. It hit him only after he had made it past the front desk, his heart pounding as he spoke to the receptionist, half-expecting to be stopped or turned away. Somehow, he had been granted access because apparently Satoru had informed them about him beforehand. Now, standing in front of the apartment door itself, Sukuna could only let out a long, tired sigh.

He hoped that Satoru was already home and would hear the bell.

Once. Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

The door remained stubbornly closed.

Cold and exhausted, his limbs heavy from the day, Sukuna finally gave up and lowered himself to the floor, sitting right in front of the door. If Satoru came back or woke up and opened it, at least he would feel the movement. That would be enough to wake him. He couldn’t call him anyway. His phone was broken. And he hadn’t even memorized Satoru’s number.

Curling in on himself, Sukuna folded his arms around his legs, his legs drew up to his chest  and used them as a makeshift pillow, resting his head against them. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head tighter, the cap beneath it shadowing his face even more. In that small, cramped position, he felt a little warmer. A little safer.

He closed his eyes, hoping he could sleep, even just for a moment, just until Satoru opened the door and let him in.

---------------------------

Satoru staggered slightly as he walked toward the elevator in the lobby. He’d drunk quite a bit tonight, but he was still sober enough to get himself home. Suguru had insisted on walking him back, had even tried to grab his sleeve and drag him along, but Satoru had refused.

Inside the elevator, he leaned his full weight against the wall, arms crossed loosely as he waited for it to take him to the top floor. The quiet hum of the lift was almost soothing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, squinting slightly at the screen. 1:15 a.m.

Huh. Later than he thought.

He opened his messaging app, finally checking the unread notifications that had piled up since morning. Messages from campus group chats, one from the Ryomen Exterminators group—Satoru snorted softly at the name, remembering Yuuji’s stupidly enthusiastic grin when he’d come up with it. There were also a few messages from professors assigning last-minute tasks, some casual texts from Shoko, and a couple from Yuta. He also spotted the Sukuna Project group chat.

Scrolling further down, his eyes landed on the very last unread message.

From Yuuji.

He opened it.

Yuuji: Hey, I can’t get a hold of Sukuna. Please make sure you give him your apartment door code.

—Oh fuck..

Satoru straightened abruptly, pushing himself off the elevator wall. His foot tapped impatiently against the floor as his gaze snapped to the elevator display, watching the numbers crawl upward far too slowly. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath.

The moment the soft ding sounded and the doors slid open on the twenty-fifth floor, Satoru bolted out. The hallway lights were dim, casting long shadows across the carpeted floor. At the far end, right in front of his apartment door, there was a shape. Something small. Curled in on itself.

Sukuna.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Satoru rushed over and stopped short in front of him. Sukuna was curled up against the door, still wearing the same clothes from earlier, his hood pulled up, his posture tight and protective. Up close, the exhaustion on his face was painfully obvious. His features were drawn, his skin pale, his entire body slack.

Satoru crouched down in front of him. At first, he’d intended to wake him immediately, but he froze when he really looked at Sukuna’s face. His brows were tightly knit, his hands clenched into fists even in sleep.

Is he cold?

For a brief moment, Satoru’s hand hovered near Sukuna’s face, an almost instinctive urge to check his temperature, to touch his cheek and see how cold he really was. But he stopped himself. Instead, he gently reached for Sukuna’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it carefully and giving it a small squeeze.

“Sukuna,” he said softly. “Hey. Wake up.”

What happened next was the last thing he expected.

Sukuna’s eyes flew open, wide and wild, and in the same instant he shoved Satoru with all his strength. The force caught Satoru completely off guard. He fell backward, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“Whoa—!”

Sukuna was already on his feet, breathing hard, his gaze darting around the hallway like a trapped animal. His shoulders were tense, his fists raised defensively as he tried to piece together where he was, what had just happened.

Then his eyes locked onto Satoru, who was struggling to stand up, wobbling slightly as he pushed himself off the floor. Getting up after a fall was hard enough but doing it while slightly drunk was even worse.

“I—sorry,” Sukuna blurted out, his voice uneven. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t know. I didn’t feel the door move, so I thought—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening as he swallowed the rest of his sentence.

Satoru raised a hand, steadying himself. “It’s okay, S’kuna.” He took a step closer, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. “Come on, let’s go inside. It’s cold tonight.”

He turned toward the door and keyed in the passcode. “Make sure you remember this, okay? Look—see? It’s easy to remember.” Sukuna stood beside him, eyes flicking down to the keypad despite himself.

263131

The lock chimed softly, a clear ding signaling the correct code, and the door slid open.

Satoru stepped inside first. Sukuna followed a second later, murmuring a quiet, almost inaudible, “Thank you,” as he slipped out of his shoes. He didn’t linger. The moment he was inside, he moved quickly down the hall toward his room, he shut his bedroom door firmly behind him and locked it.

Satoru stood there in the entryway for a moment, staring at the closed door. He let out a tired sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Whatever. It was obvious Sukuna didn’t want to deal with him tonight. 

With another quiet exhale, Satoru turned away and headed for his own room, the soft click of his door closing echoing faintly down the hallway.

---------------------------

Sukuna was standing in a vast, lightless space. No walls. No ceiling. Just darkness stretching endlessly in every direction, thick and heavy, pressing against his skin. The air felt damp, cold, clinging to his lungs with every breath he took.

He stood alone until he saw a flicker of movement.

"Yuuji?"

His brother stood in the distance. Relief surged through Sukuna, at least he wasn't alone.

He called out, his voice cracking, and began to run a little towards Yuuji. But the harder he pushed, the further Yuuji seemed to drift. Yuuji’s face was a mask of cold indifference, his eyes devoid of the warmth he usually carried. Behind him, more figures materialized like ghosts: his parents, his grandparents, Satoru, Uraume, Suguru, Megumi, and Atsuya.

Sukuna didn’t stop. He couldn't be left here. He ran and ran until his lungs burned and his clothes were drenched in sweat. Panic bloomed in his chest. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. He didn’t want to be here. 

He ran again.

His feet moved, his legs burned, but no matter how fast he went, Yuuji didn’t get any closer. The distance between them stayed exactly the same, stretched thin and cruel. Sukuna’s chest tightened as dread seeped in.

Yuuji just stood there, watching.

His expression was wrong. So wrong Sukuna thought it might not be Yuuji standing there. His brother wasn't supposed to have that look on his face. Not Yuuji, never Yuuji.

Because he knew damn well it was the same look Sukuna had seen so many times before—the look people wore when they had already decided he wasn’t worth saving. Like he was worth nothing.

“No—” Sukuna gasped, running harder. “Don’t look at me like that. Yuuji, please—”

He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping for air as sweat dripped onto the floor.

Drip.

Drip.

He looked down and his heart froze. His hands were stained crimson, dripping with blood that wouldn't wash off. His heart slammed violently against his ribs as he realized he was standing in a pool of water—dark, murky water that reached his ankles. 

“No… no…”

He tried to wipe his hands on his shirt, frantic, desperate, but the blood wouldn’t come off. It only spread further, staining the fabric crimson.

And water began to pool higher around his ankles, rising rapidly. He looked toward the end of the void where Yuuji and the others stood.

He ran again, his legs heavy as the water reached his calves. One by one, they turned their backs on him. His parents, his grandparents, Uraume, all of them—even Satoru. They all walked away.

"Yuuji! Don't leave me!" he screamed.

He watched Megumi reached out, taking Yuuji’s hand and pulling him into the shadows. Sukuna’s pace slowed to a staggered walk; the water was now at his waist, thick and resistant. “No!” he screamed again.

"Help... please..."

Then, he saw Satoru.

He stopped, gasping, unable to run anymore. The water was above his knees now, heavy and suffocating. Sukuna lurched forward, but his legs gave out. He could only wade forward slowly, each step an agony.

He kept moving, even as the water rose to his chest, even as his arms felt weak and numb. Satoru didn’t move. He just stood there, staring down at Sukuna without a smile, without warmth.

“Please,” Sukuna begged. “Please…”

"Ss... Satoru... wait for me... don't go..."

The water reached his chest. Satoru stood perfectly still, watching Sukuna drown without a hint of his usual playful smile. His gaze was icy. 

Panic exploded in his veins as he fought to keep his head above the surface, thrashing helplessly. Sukuna thrashed again and again, struggling against the weight of the water as it touched his throat. 

"Please... please..." His breath hitched.

Now the water was swallowing him whole.

Satoru stepped forward and touched Sukuna’s reaching hand. Instantly, the water vanished. Sukuna collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air.

But before he could recover, a low rumble shook the ground. To his left and right, massive wooden walls—tall as the walls of Satoru’s apartment—slid toward him with terrifying speed.

Satoru remained in front of him, a silent statue, indifferent to the walls closing in. Sukuna grabbed Satoru’s hand, trying to pull him away so they wouldn't be trapped together, but his voice was gone. Satoru didn't move. He looked down at Sukuna with a flash of pure disgust, as if Sukuna were a pathogen, the root of every tragedy.

Nononono...

A ceiling panel dropped from above. Sukuna ducked, shielding his head as a deafening clang echoed. When he looked up, he was encased. The wooden walls were hauntingly familiar—the smell of his grandmother’s cupboard, the closet at the Ryomen estate, the walls of the study where he performed Ryoumen’s "dirty work." It was the place where people were punished until their last breath, where the dead lived forever alongside Sukuna’s mounting guilt.

He scrambled to his feet, reaching for the only opening left where Satoru stood. But Satoru wasn't alone anymore. Yuuji, Megumi, Uraume, his parents—they were all there, watching him with collective hatred.

Sukuna reached for his Mom, but a hand violently wrenched his grip away. He reached for Yuuji, and again, he was pushed back. He reached for Satoru, again he was pushed back.

He looked to his mother, hoping for a shred of mercy. She simply let go of his hand, a thin, cruel smile touching her lips.

"No! please no... I can't! Mom... please...don’t do this..."

His grandmother stepped forward, holding a key he knew all too well. They didn't see him as a person; they saw him as a burden to be discarded. Together, his parents and Yuuji began to push the heavy door shut. Megumi and Satoru shoved Sukuna back into the cramped, foul-smelling darkness.

"No! Mom, no! Yuuji, please!"

The door slammed shut.

Total darkness. The oxygen grew thin. Water began seeping through the cracks, rising past his waist. Sukuna pounded on the walls, but they felt like solid concrete. He clawed at the wood until his fingernails bled, desperate for a breath of air as the water reached his chest.

The box began to shrink. It forced him to crouch, but if he crouched, he would submerge. The space became smaller and smaller until he was forced down. He thrashed, his mouth filling with cold, metallic water. His lungs screamed. His chest was on fire.

Wake up... it's a dream... it's not real...

Should I just stop? If I stop trying, if I stop breathing, will I wake up?

Should I just stop?

He stopped.

He stopped moving. His limbs went limp. His vision blurred. The heat in his lungs turned into a dull ache, and the tips of his fingers felt like they were being scorched by ice. Just as his eyes began to close, a piercing scream erupted.

He barely recognized the voice. It was his. A high-pitched shriek. A piercing scream.

A voice inside his own head, so loud it shattered the walls of the cupboard, dragging him violently back to the surface of reality.

Sukuna bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with cold sweat. The silence of the room was deafening, but the phantom feeling of the water was still there, choking him.

He stumbled out of bed, his legs trembling, and made his way to the bathroom. He quickly turned on the light. In the light glow of it, he looked at his hands. They weren't bloody, but they felt dirty. They felt heavy and numb.

He braced himself against the sink, staring at his reflection—wide eyes, pale skin, a face twisted with terror and shame.

He needed it to stop.

The noise in his head.

The pressure and the numbness.

The memories claw at him.

He did what he always did when it became too much.

He reached for the cabinet, searching for something, anything. His breath came in shallow hitches. He needed to feel something else—something sharp enough to cut through the memory of the cupboard.

He needed to feel real and present.

He searched frantically, his hands trembling as they swept across the cold marble cabinet. Nothing. There was nothing here. No blades, no forgotten shards of glass—nothing.

Right. He wasn’t in his apartment. He was in Satoru’s. Everything here was clean, and utterly devoid of the "tools" he used to keep himself grounded.

—fuck.

A low, guttural growl escaped his throat. The walls of the bathroom felt like they were shrinking, mimicking the wooden panels of the cupboard from his nightmare. He felt the phantom sensation of water rising up his throat again.

Please. He needed to bleed. He needed to prove it wasn’t real, he needed to feel that he was out of the dream.

Sukuna gripped his own hair, pulling so hard his scalp burned, trying to drown out the echoes of his family’s voices. Then, with a desperate, jagged force, he dug his nails into his thighs.

He doubled over. Dug more into his thigh.

He didn't care about the pain; he welcomed it. He dragged his blunt nails over the pale skin, intentionally finding the ridges of old scars—wounds that had barely begun to fade into silver lines. He tore them open.

The skin gave way, and the sudden, sharp sting brought a momentary, distorted clarity. Dark, metallic-smelling blood began to well up, staining his fingers and dripping onto the white tiled floor. The copper scent hit his nose. It’s thick and sickly sweet.

He slumped against the nearest wall, sliding down until he sat on the cold floor, his breath hitching as he watched the blood ruin Satoru’s expensive tiles.

He was shaking so hard, his vision tunneling, trapped between the horror of the dream and the sickening reality of the bathroom floor.

The pain grounded him, sharp and immediate, dragging him back into his body. Back into the present. It reminded him that he was here in Satoru's bathroom.

The cupboard was gone. That dream wasn’t real.

Sukuna slumped onto the cold tiles, his body heavy and drained. The nausea swirled in his gut, but he forced his mind to focus. He needed to anchor himself before he drifted back into another panic attack because he could smell the blood all over the room now. Thicker now.

So, he reached back into his memory, pulling at the advice Uraume had whispered to him years ago during his very first panic attack.

Ground yourself, Sukuna. Tell me three things you can feel, three things you can see, and three sounds you can hear.

So, he closed his eyes and started with what he could feel.

He could feel the coldness of the bathroom floor pressed against his back. He focused on the thick, tacky sensation of the blood on his fingertips, on his thigh. He could feel it, it was warm. It was real and visceral.

One more.

He felt the edge of a band-aid on his index finger, his wound from his work earlier. The slight texture of the fabric grounding him to the present.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, forcing himself to look. To see.

He could  see the bathroom light was blindingly bright, searing into his retinas and washing away the shadows of the cupboard.

He looked up, tracing the intricate carvings on the ceiling; they looked like roses, white roses, frozen in walls.

Another one. His eyes darted, searching for something else.

And there, hus eyes locked onto a small insect perched precariously on the edge of the light fixture. It was alive. It was moving.

He took a jagged breath, pushing the air deep into his lungs.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Now, three sounds he can hear.

He closed his eyes again. Tried to focus catching any sounds he can hear.

First, he can hear the ragged, uneven whistle of his own breath. He could hear a soft scratching at the door—It’s Yoru. He can hear Yoru stracthing and meowing at the same time.

One more...the last one. Come on, Sukuna. What was it? Focus.

He can hear a voice muffled by the heavy door. The sound of his name being spoken by that specific voice. Like a tether, pulling Sukuna the rest of the way out of the dark water. 

It was rich, warm, and laced with a trace of sleep-heavy concern.

It was Satoru Gojo.

He was calling him. Asked him to open the door.

And as the reality of Satoru’s presence set in, so did the realization of the state he was in.

That made Sukuna curl more into himself, pressing his forehead to his knees, eyes squeezed shut. He could smell the blood on his thighs, on his hands, on the tiles. He could smell it everywhere.

He can hear Satoru outside. Knocking on the door loudly.

That's it. It's real.

He's real.

He's here, curled up on the bathroom floor. In Satoru’s apartment, with Yoru and Satoru. Nothing else. No one else. 

Yes. It’s real. He could hear them. He could feel the cold tiles, the blood, the pain. He could see the roses on the ceiling. He could hear Satoru's voice outside, calling him.

He is safe.

Sukuna’s breathing steadied.

---------------------------

Satoru woke up to a sound.

He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow as a rhythmic, jagged pain throbbed behind his eyes. His head was pounding, each beat of his heart feeling like a hammer strike against his skull. The noise —whatever it was— had sliced through his drunken stupor like a dull blade, dragging him back to consciousness far earlier than he desired.

He really shouldn't have drunk that much.

This was entirely Suguru’s fault. His best friend had spent the entire night baiting him, throwing challenge after challenge across the table until the empty glasses had piled up like trophies. Satoru’s memory was a hazy blur of neon lights and the burning sting of whisky and vodka.

But, being honest with himself even through the hangover, half the blame lay squarely on Satoru’s own ego. He knew he would never back down, especially not when he could see the mounting total on Suguru’s tab. He had wanted revenge and what better way to get it than by draining his best friend’s bank account one shot at a time?

Now, he was paying the price. The room felt like it was spinning at a low frequency. Satoru squinted, his eyes stinging as he forced them open.

He had always been a light sleeper. Ever since childhood, even the smallest noise could pull him out of sleep in an instant. Being raised as the primary heir of a powerful, wealthy family had trained his body to stay alert even when it was supposed to rest. Awareness was second nature to him, especially at night, when vulnerability felt unacceptable.

Usually, it was something mundane. Like the low hum of the air conditioner in his room. The balcony curtains rustled because he’d forgotten to close the glass door. The faint vibration of his phone on the desk. Sometimes even birds settling near the pool outside, wings brushing water, soft and fleeting. But not tonight. Tonight, it was a sound that didn’t belong.

Satoru frowned slightly in the darkness, eyes opening wider as the sound reached him again, longer this time. A drawn-out meow, sharp and insistent, like it was demanding his attention.

“…What?” he muttered under his breath. Sounds like a cat. But he didn’t have a cat, did he?

The sound came again, louder now. Repeated. Urgent. It sounded distressed. Satoru pushed himself upright, sitting on the edge of his bed as he listened carefully. The meowing continued, growing more frantic, scraping faintly against something solid—glass or wood?

Then it clicked.

“…Right,” he murmured. “That thing.”

Sukuna’s cat.

He glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table.

4:02 a.m.

Satoru considered ignoring it. But then he remembered how the cat had gone completely still earlier that evening the moment Sukuna had picked him up. How the animal, aggressive and sharp with everyone else, had softened instantly in Sukuna’s presence.

If the cat was this upset… where's Sukuna?

With a quiet sigh, Satoru stood up and slipped out of his room. The apartment was dark, silent except for the persistent sound echoing through the hallway. He descended the stairs slowly, stepped carefully, and followed the noise until he stood in front of Sukuna’s room.

The door was made of glass, covered by curtains from the inside. A sliding door, designed like a balcony entrance in his rooms upstairs.

And it’s locked. Of course...

The meowing was definitely coming from inside. Satoru frowned deeply now. Something was wrong. He stepped closer and leaned in, listening harder. It sounded like the cat paced behind the door, claws brushing against the glass, meowing again and again. But beneath that —nothing.

Unease crept into Satoru’s chest. He knocked gently at first. “Sukuna,” he called, voice low. “Are you in there?”

Silence.

He tried again. “Hey. Your cat sounds like it needs something.”

Still nothing.

Satoru straightened, his jaw tightening. He knocked again, louder this time. “Sukuna! Wake up! Your cat is freaking out.”

No response.

That wasn’t normal.

“How deep could he possibly be sleeping?” Satoru muttered, irritation mixing with concern. He raised his hand and knocked harder, the sound sharp against the glass. “Sukuna! Hey! Wake up!”

Still nothing. His pulse began to quicken.

“Sukuna!” he said again, louder than before. “If you don’t answer in five seconds, I’m forcing this door open. One…”

He waited.

“Two…”

The cat let out a sharp, broken sound, pleading...

“Th—”

“AAAAAAARRRGHHH!!”

The scream tore through the night. Its a piercing scream. Loud and high pitched scream. It sounded scared. Terrified.

It made Satoru froze immediately. Because that was definitely Sukuna’s voice.

Yorustopped his frantic cries, letting out a small, distressed mewl instead.

“Sukuna!” Satoru shouted, all hesitation gone. “SUKUNAA!”

He slammed his fist against the door. “I swear to God, I will break this door down and come in—with or without your permission!”

He hit the glass again, harder this time, panic fully setting in as his mind raced through every possible scenario. His heart pounded violently as he leaned closer, straining to hear anything. What Satoru received wasn’t an answer but the sound of something crashing to the floor. A sharp thud echoed from inside, followed by hurried rustling, chaotic and unfocused. Objects were knocked aside, movements clumsy with panic rather than purpose.

Satoru’s brow furrowed. A thief? An intruder? No. That's impossible.

This apartment was equipped with the best security systems in Japan. Every entrance was monitored. Every access point was restricted. There was no way someone could have gotten in unnoticed.

Unease crept up his spine anyway. Satoru leaned closer to the door, holding his breath as he listened more carefully. That was when he heard Sukuna’s breathing. It was heavy, far too heavy. Ragged and uneven, each inhale sounding strained, each exhale shuddering as if his chest couldn’t keep up. It sounded like a severe panic attack.

“Shit…” Satoru muttered under his breath.

Without stopping to think, he tried to force the door open. He knocked hard first.

No response.

He pounded against the glass, then kicked at it, grabbed the handle, pulled, shoved. Satoru used his weight, his strength, anything he had. The door didn’t budge even slightly. Not even a crack. Of course it didn’t. Gojo family property wasn’t something brute force could overpower.

“Damn it!” Satoru snapped.

He turned and bolted toward his room, mind racing. He remembered he had a duplicate key somewhere in his room. He tore through his desk drawers, scattering papers. Then his wardrobe. Then another drawer, hands moving faster than his thoughts.

Where was it?

Where—

There!

A familiar keyring, pale blue, cool metal pressing into his palm as he grabbed it. He didn’t waste another second and sprinted back downstairs, his steps long and reckless. He skipped several stairs at once, nearly losing his balance, not caring as long as he got there faster.

When he reached Sukuna’s room, he shoved the key into the lock and twisted it open as quickly as he could. His hand trembled slightly.

The door swung open.

But the room was empty. Satoru froze just inside the doorway. Sukuna wasn’t on his bed and the sheets were messy. The air felt heavy, like panic had soaked into the walls and lingered.

His gaze swept the room.

Near the window stood a suitcase, only half unpacked, clothes folded neatly inside. On the opposite side of the room, several canvases leaned against the wall—some finished, some abandoned halfway through. Beneath them, painting supplies lay scattered across the floor: charcoal pencils, sketchbooks, brushes, tubes of paint. A few textbooks were mixed in, left carelessly among the mess.

On the small table beside the bed lay a pair of headphones, a recording device, and several stacks of sketch papers spread out in disarray, their pages filled with rough, restless lines.

Sukuna’s presence was everywhere. Yet Sukuna himself was nowhere to be seen.

A soft sound broke the silence. A low, unhappy meow. The cat sat in front of the bathroom door. Her posture was wrong. Her tail low, ears tilted back. She meowed again, a sad, thin sound, then lifted a paw and scratched weakly at the door. It was completely unlike her energetic behavior earlier that morning when Yuji had brought her over. Satoru followed Yoru’s gaze. The bathroom door was closed. And the light inside was on. Slowly, dread settling in his chest, Satoru stepped closer.

Sukuna was there.

Satoru raised his hand and knocked on the bathroom door, careful at first, knuckles tapping against the wood. "Sukuna?"

“Hey, Sukuna?” once again he called through the door. “Are you okay? What happened?”

No answer came, only the sound of something clattering to the floor, followed by hurried movement, as if items were being knocked aside in a rush.

“I heard you scream earlier,” Satoru said, his voice firmer now. “Are you okay?”

Still nothing.

His jaw tightened. “Sukuna?” He knocked again, harder this time. “If you don’t answer me, I’m going to force the door open. So you’d better respond right now. Are you okay?”

Silence stretched on for several long minutes. A moment passed. A rustled sound coming from inside. A ragged breath. Soft and uneven.

Satoru shifted his weight, bracing himself, already preparing to ram his shoulder into the door when, finally, a voice came from inside.

“…Hmm.” It was quiet. Too quiet. So faint that Satoru almost thought he’d imagined it.

“You sure?” Satoru asked immediately.

Another long minutes passed.

“You got your answer, Gojo,” Sukuna snapped back. “Now leave.”

On the surface, his tone sounded sharp, irritated and defensive. If someone didn’t know better, they might have believed he was fine. But Satoru knew better. There was something wrong with Sukuna’s voice.

It was hoarse, strained, as if his throat hurt. Like he’d been choking back tears. Like he’d been crying or screaming far longer than anyone should have.

Was he crying?

Or was his voice wrecked from that scream earlier?

“No,” Satoru replied without hesitation. “Not until you tell me what happened. I’ll stay right here all night if I have to, until I get an answer from you.”

There was no response.

“Sukuna?” His voice softened, just slightly. “Do you want me to call Yuji and have him come over?”

The answer came instantly. “Fuck you, Gojo!”

Satoru froze. What? What did I do? he was genuinely stunned. He was just trying to help. If Sukuna didn’t want to talk to him, then maybe talking to Yuji would make things easier, right? 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Satoru said aloud, forcing a careless tone he didn’t really feel. “If that’s what you want, Sukuna.”

He reached for his pocket.“…Right. Great,” he muttered. He’d left his phone upstairs. He turned, about to go get it and actually call Yuji because Satoru knew Yuuji was better at this. He had seen it just two days ago, the way Yuuji could navigate Sukuna’s storms with a gentle patience that Satoru simply didn't possess. Besides, a bitter part of him was certain that Sukuna wouldn't even be comfortable with him. Not like this. Satoru knew his presence usually sparked defiance or irritation in Sukuna. 

But then, to Satoru's surprise, Sukuna’s voice came from behind the door.

“I’m fine.” The anger was gone. “It's just a nightmare.” The words were soft now, drained of all sharpness. His voice sounded weak, tired, heavy with something unspoken.

God. He sounds so sad.

So hollow and devoid of its usual bite, sent a sharp, physical pang through Satoru’s chest. It was a weight he hadn't expected to carry, a vicarious ache that made his own throat tighten in sympathy. Hearing Sukuna who usually stood like an unbreakable fortress, sound so small and defeated made Satoru's heart break into million pieces. It hurted him, he didn't know why. His thumb traced the lock at the door. He wanted to burst in, to wrap Sukuna in his arms and drown out the nightmares, but he feared his touch might just be another wall closing in on him. Satoru was afraid that he will hurt him more.

Another muffled sound came from behind the door—a wet, shaky gasp. Satoru’s heart hammered against his ribs. He couldn't just leave him, but he felt like he was standing on the edge of a glass floor, terrified that one wrong step would shatter everything Sukuna had managed to build.

For someone who still experienced nightmares from time to time, Satoru understood exactly what it felt like to wake up trapped in the aftermath of one. He wasn’t a stranger to panic attacks born from dreams. He’d had his share of them years ago, back when his life was still tightly bound by the suffocating control of his clan. Back when sleep wasn’t rest, but another battlefield he had to survive.

And now when everything felt better, that didn’t mean he’d forgotten. It didn’t mean the memories had faded. He knew the sensation too well, the violent way fear snapped you awake, your chest hammering so hard it felt like it might tear itself apart. Like your heart was pounding right beside your ears, each beat deafening and overwhelming. The way your lungs refused to cooperate, every breath shallow and useless, no matter how desperately you tried to inhale.

Satoru knew that feeling of sitting upright in the dark, drenched in cold sweat, body convinced that the danger was still real even when your mind told you it wasn’t. He also knew why the bathroom often felt like the safest place to go after a nightmare that bad.

The bright, unforgiving light that erased every shadow. The pale walls and reflective surfaces that bounced the light back at you, leaving nowhere for fear to hide. The cold tile beneath your bare feet, sharp enough to bite into your skin and remind you that you were awake—fully, undeniably awake. So Satoru understood that the bathroom had always been an anchor to reality. Everything about it grounded you. It forced your senses to focus on the present. It helped you remember that the nightmare was over, that it had only been a dream, even if your body still refused to believe it.

And standing outside that bathroom door now, listening to Sukuna’s exhausted breathe and hollow voice, Satoru understood exactly why he’d locked himself in there.

So, he did what he could do to help, he leaned his weight against the bathroom door before slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor right in front of it. His back rested against the wood, solid and unmoving, as if he could physically anchor himself there. He stayed quiet, listening carefully to the sounds on the other side.

Sukuna’s breathing was still heavy—ragged at the edges, like each inhale had to be forced through a tight chest. But it was no longer the frantic, broken rhythm of someone hyperventilating. It came slower now. Uneven, strained, but gradually finding a pattern again.

Satoru folded his legs, settling into the position without thinking much of it. The movement seemed to be some kind of silent invitation, because a moment later, Yoru padded over. The cat paused only briefly before hopping into Satoru’s lap, curling there as if it had always belonged. Satoru stiffened for half a second. He didn’t know whether he should push the cat away or let it stay. He’d never been fond of cats, never trusted their sharp eyes or their unpredictable moods. But for the first time, strangely enough, he didn’t feel afraid.

Carefully, he reached out and stroked Yoru’s head. The cat responded immediately, letting out a soft, vibrating purr that resonated warmly against Satoru’s legs. The sound was low and steady, comforting in a way Satoru hadn’t expected. A small smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

That made him wish he could offer the same kind of comfort to Sukuna. And if he couldn’t make the fear disappear, if he couldn’t magically make Sukuna feel better then at the very least, he wanted to offer his presence, the one thing he could give without conditions.

“You know,” Satoru spoke softly, his voice low so it wouldn’t carry too harshly through the door, “I used to get them too.” His hand continued to move through Yoru’s fur, slow and steady, as if the rhythm itself might help ground them both.

“Nightmares. Panic attacks. I used to have them a lot.”

There was no response from the other side of the door. No sound of acknowledgment, no sharp remark telling him to shut up. Satoru let out a quiet breath, then spoke again, his tone deliberately light and playful, though there was an unmistakable sincerity beneath it.

“This stays between us, okay?” he said softly. “Think of it as a story between two people who know what really bad nightmares feel like. We can be… nightmare buddies, you know.” He gave a small, breathy laugh, the sound fading almost as soon as it left him. Then he exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening as if he were finally allowing himself to sink into the moment. His gaze drifted around Sukuna’s room but his focus went far beyond the walls.

Past the room. Past the apartment. Back into his own childhood.

“A lot of people think being Gojo Satoru is a blessing,” he continued. “An only child. Born into obscene wealth. Heir to the strongest clan in Japan. Privileges stacked so high it’s almost untouchable.” His voice didn’t carry pride. If anything, it carried a tired amusement. “But all of that comes with pressure,” Satoru said quietly. “Crushing fear, constant pressure.” He paused, fingers absentmindedly brushing through Yoru’s fur as the cat continued to purr in his lap. “I think…” He hesitated, then spoke more honestly. “I think, you Sukuna, you might be the only person who could actually understand what that felt like.”

Satoru fell silent, giving the space back to the quiet bathroom, listening carefully for any sign, any word or movement that Sukuna wanted him to stop. When nothing came, he took it not as rejection, but permission. So he continued.

Satoru shifted slightly, his back still resting against the bathroom door, his voice steady but lower now. More intimate, as if the words themselves carried weight he rarely allowed anyone else to touch. “I had my first nightmare when I was seven,” he said. “That was when the private lessons started taking up every bit of free time I had.”

His fingers moved absently, “Sometimes I dreamed about silly monsters,” Satoru continued. “About books that came alive and swallowed me whole. Sometimes my own parents turned into monsters standing over me, telling me to study, to do better. It never stops.” He let out a short laugh, soft and almost fond. From a distance, the memory sounded ridiculous. “Thinking about it now, it almost feels funny,” he admitted quietly. The humor faded as quickly as it came.

“But the nightmares got worse after I finally left the house,” Satoru went on. “I thought starting a normal life like everyone else would be amazing. I really believed it would be better, it would fix everything.” He shook his head faintly. “It didn’t. If anything, they became worse.”

His gaze dropped, following the slow rise and fall of Yoru’s breathing. “Before, I had no friends, you know. But after I left the house and got some friends like normal people did. The nightmares were almost always about them, the people closest to me,” he said. “The ones I cared about the most. Walking out of my life like I was never there. Like I was nothing.”

Satoru lowered his head further, watching the cat sleep as if grounding himself in something undeniably real. “And it never completely went away,” he added. “Even now, I still get them sometimes.” A small smile tugged at his lips, self-aware and faintly embarrassed. “And you know what I do every time I wake up from one?” he said. “I leave my room and lie down outside.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head at himself, as if acknowledging how absurd the habit must sound—yet how necessary it had always been.

“You know the balcony next to your room, right?” Satoru continued softly. “Sometimes I lie out there the entire night. I let the wind hit my face, feel the cold floor beneath me, stare at the dark sky. I count the stars when I can find them. Sometimes, I go for a swim. The cold water helps me stay grounded.” He paused, then added casually, “By the way, you can do that too, Sukuna. You’re free to use every room and every facility in this apartment. Nothing here is off-limits to you.”

His voice grew quieter again, more careful. “And when it gets really really bad. Like I can’t breathe at all. I call Shoko. Or sometimes Yuta, because you know, Utahime kind of possessive that girl, she will glare at me the next day, aalll day just because I called my bestfriend who is also her girlfriend at two in the morning,” he gave a soft, amused chuckle. “Fyi, Shoko and I have been friends since junior high. And Yuta… he’s the closest family I have. I’ve always thought of him as my little brother.” Satoru swallowed, his vision blurring slightly. “So, yeah, it helps. Calling someone or having someone to talk to when you are having a hard time helps. And I'm so grateful that they never ask why I call in the middle of the night, or at dawn,” he went on. “They just answer my call and listen.”

His eyes glistened in the dim hallway light. More than anything, he was so grateful for their presence, for their quiet understanding, for the simple fact that he had never had to face those nights completely alone.

Satoru remembered those difficult years clearly. The first few months after Suguru left, when the silence felt louder than any argument they had ever had. He remembered the constant whispers from clan members who never stopped commenting on his lifestyle, his choices, the way he lived as if he owed them explanations. He remembered his father’s voice, persistent and heavy, demanding that he should come home, that he should just return to the clan and fall back into line.

Back then, everything had felt suffocating. Too many expectations. Too many hands trying to pull him in different directions.

But somehow, things had gotten better.

Not because the pressure disappeared entirely, but because Satoru no longer faced it alone. He had people who stood beside him, people who listened without judgment, who stayed even when he was difficult, distant, or exhausted. That was what had saved him. Not strength, not pride but the quiet, unwavering presence of others.

And now, Satoru found himself wishing the same thing for Sukuna.

He hoped Sukuna would have people like that in his life. People who would answer the phone in the middle of the night. People who would sit outside a door for hours if that was what it took to make him feel better.  People who wouldn’t leave.

And selfishly, perhaps, he hoped he could be one of them.

“You know, Sukuna,” Satoru said gently, his back still pressed against the bathroom door, his hand was still there, absently stroking Yoru’s fur, “I can be that for you.”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I mean… if you want me to,” he said, a small, awkward laugh slipping out. “I can be your Shoko, or your Yuta. I can be whoever you need me to be to get through nights like this.” His voice softened, losing its usual teasing edge completely. “You don’t have to go through it alone,” he added. “Not if you don’t want to.”

He fell quiet after that, leaving the space open. Just his presence, steady and unmoving, waiting on the other side of the door.

When no response came from Sukuna for several moments, the silence began to feel heavy. Satoru shifted his weight and decided to change tactics. He stopped talking about the nightmare, realizing that dwelling on the darkness would only pull Sukuna deeper into it.

Instead, he started talking about anything and everything. He rambled about the ridiculous things he did the first time he was allowed to leave his house to play on his own. He told a story about a random, petty argument he had with a kid half his size over a high score at an arcade game machine, and other stupid, impulsive things he’d done just to see if he could get away with them. He kept his voice light and steady, weaving a blanket of mundane, silly memories to cover the jagged edges of the silence inside the room.

Satoru stayed by the door until he felt the tension in the air settle into something manageable. 

He knew Sukuna well enough by now that pushing him further would only make him retreat deeper into his shell. More than that, Satoru hated the thought of Sukuna sitting on those cold bathroom tiles for too long, but he respected the boundary Sukuna had drawn with his silence. So, he thought that it's better to leave Sukuna alone for now. Satoru gently lifted Yoru and moved her to the floor, then stood up and patted his clothes, trying to remove Yoru's fur that was stuck to him. 

"Alright, I'm going back to the room now," Satoru said softly, his voice echoing gently inside. He gave the door a final, lingering pat, as if he could transmit some warmth through it. "You shouldn't stay in there too long, okay? It's not good for you."

He lingered for a heartbeat, waiting to see if there would be one last word, but when only silence met him, he straightened up. "I’m going upstairs. So if you need anything—anything at all—just call me. I mean it, Sukuna." With a final, lingering look at the line of light beneath the door, Satoru turned away. He forced himself to walk back to his room, giving Sukuna the space he needed. To breathe, to heal, and to finally rest.

He left the light on as a small beacon of safety, before disappearing back into his room.

---------------------------

The sun was already high in the sky when Satoru finally groaned himself awake. His head felt like it had been split open, a rhythmic, punishing throb behind his eyes that made every movement an ordeal. He definitely shouldn't have tried to outdrink Suguru. His mouth felt dry, his limbs heavy, and for a few seconds he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember why he had ever thought drinking that much was a good idea.

“…damn,” he muttered hoarsely.

He dragged himself out of bed much later than usual, movements sluggish and uncoordinated. His head protested with every step as he made his way out of the bedroom and down the stairs. With heavy steps and eyes squinted against the intrusive morning light, he stumbled downstairs. His only mission was to find water or anything that could quell the storm inside his skull.

However, the sight in the kitchen brought him to a sudden halt.

Sitting on the counter was a blueberry milkshake, condensation frosting the glass, looking impossibly cold and fresh. Tucked neatly beneath the glass was a small note in Sukuna’s handwriting.

Satoru picked up the paper, 

I’m sorry about last night.

Satoru swallowed.

Didn’t mean to cause trouble. I promise it won’t happen again.

His fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

There’s an envelope on the table. It’s the money for staying here. I’ll give you the rest with my next paycheck.

—Sukuna.

Satoru set the note down, a hollow feeling settling in his chest. He picked it up, hesitating only a second before opening it. Inside were several hundred thousand yen, neatly stacked.

He didn't want the money, the sight of it only reminded him how desperately Sukuna tried to avoid being a burden, and how he lived with one foot already out the door.

He left the envelope untouched and reached for the drink instead. Satoru knew that a thick, sweet blueberry milkshake was probably a bizarre choice for a hangover, but as the cold, creamy liquid hit his tongue, he went still, because in the midst of his pounding headache and the lingering ache in his heart from the night before,

Satoru decided it was the best blueberry milkshake he had ever had in his entire life.

---------------------------

Chapter Text

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Sukuna’s weeks became busy.

Busy wasn’t even the right word. They were exhausting. Like today.

Sukuna savored the cold blueberry ice cream as it melted on his tongue, letting the sweetness wash away the lingering fatigue in his limbs. His eyes drifted over the scenery ahead; the winter wind was blowing, a clear sign that the season would soon be in full swing. The trees rustled loudly under the strong gusts, and the sky above looked bleak. Yet, despite the chill in the air, Sukuna didn’t feel cold at all. Utahime Iori and Haibara Yuu sat on either side of him. Though there was a small gap between them, he could feel a warmth radiating toward him, spreading to his fingertips and through his entire body. It made the blueberry ice cream taste even sweeter than usual.

This week, he was out with Utahime and Haibara, moving from one meeting to the next, sitting across tables from vendors whose smiles never quite reached their eyes. Contracts were discussed for the Anniversary, numbers exchanged, coffee cups emptied and refilled. Sometimes it was just him and Utahime. Sometimes Megumi came along—once or twice at most, from what Sukuna could remember. After that, Megumi stopped showing up altogether. More often than not, it was Haibara who accompanied him instead.

Sukuna didn’t know why. Maybe Megumi was avoiding him. Maybe Haibara, being the kind of person he was, stepped in to fill the gap without making it obvious. Maybe it was a coincidence. Sukuna didn’t ask.

Haibara was easy to work with anyways—cheerful without being intrusive and very helpful. He handled awkward conversations with vendors smoothly, cracked jokes when the atmosphere got too stiff, and never once Sukuna asked why Megumi no longer came.

And just like that, without him even realizing it, tomorrow was already waiting. Another meeting. This time with the Ryomen Extermination Team—a name Yuuji had proudly come up with, as if they were some kind of underground superhero unit instead of a group of people dismantling his own family piece by piece.

For the past two weeks, Sukuna had aldo been buried in paperwork.

The first week, Atsuya handed him a thick stack of old files, records of past Ryomen clients, each one documenting how their debts had been manipulated, inflated, reshaped until repayment became impossible. Sukuna spent days studying the numbers, line by line, forcing himself to understand every calculation.

Not just what the numbers were but how they were twisted. He traced the patterns, the percentages, the fabricated penalties. The way interest multiplied quietly, invisibly, until it strangled the debtor completely. It was meticulous.

The second week, the work became even uglier.

Additional files arrived, records of Ryomen assets that had never been registered with the government. Properties under fake names. Shell companies. Accounts that didn’t officially exist. Sukuna’s task was to find the cracks and to identify where the siphoned debt money flowed, how it was laundered into unregistered assets and hidden wealth. And with the knowledge he had gathered from years of working alongside his grandmother, Sukuna couldn't deny that this was far more difficult than he had ever imagined. He had followed the trails late into the night, cross-referencing documents until the numbers blurred in his vision. Every discovery felt like peeling back another layer of rot. It made him sick to the stomach.

He realized that this was the family he came from.

And this—this mess of lies, stolen money, and ruined lives was what he was helping run and dismantle. By the time he finally closed his laptop each night, his shoulders ached, his eyes burned, and his mind felt heavy with knowledge he could never unlearn. His head felt like it was on the verge of splitting open every single day.

Having to study all of it—the files, the numbers, the patterns, the deliberate manipulation hidden behind neat columns—was already exhausting on its own. Piling that on top of his growing anxiety and constant physical fatigue only made things worse. It didn’t just overwhelm him, it actively worked against him.

His dyslexia, something he had learned to manage with effort and routine, became harder to control. Letters refused to stay still. Numbers blurred, shifted, swapped places when he wasn’t looking. Lines of text tangled together until focusing in class felt like trying to breathe underwater. Instead of getting easier, everything demanded more from him.

So Sukuna worked harder. Far harder than anyone around him realized. He reread documents again and again, tracing numbers with his finger, rewriting notes just to make them make sense. He stayed up late, woke up early, forced himself to sit still even when his thoughts scattered in every direction. His body paid the price. He honestly couldn’t remember how many times he’d gotten nosebleeds in the library over the past two weeks. It happened quietly, his head would bent over a book, concentration stretched too thin until he noticed red droplets staining the margins of his notes. He learned to always carry tissues now, learned how to tilt his head back subtly, how to clean himself up before anyone noticed.

And two weeks ago, after giving part of his money to Satoru, Sukuna had finally bought a new phone. And he regretted it deeply. Because now, everyone could reach him. And it just made his headache worse. His phone never stopped buzzing. Messages stacked up faster than he could bring himself to read them. Calls came in too—less frequently, but still far too often for someone who hated talking on the phone. The constant noise, the vibration in his pocket, the screen lighting up at the worst possible moments—it made his skin crawl.

Was this what having normal life felt like?

And the phone Atsuya had given him was rarely used. It could only make calls, and Sukuna hated phone calls. So eventually, everything moved to a group chat. The group chat, named Ryomen Exterminators, courtesy of Yuuji, was always loud. Suguru, Satoru, and Yuuji dominated most of the conversation, throwing jokes back and forth like they were playing catch. Sometimes the twins chimed in. Atsuya occasionally added something dry and practical. Most of the time, Sukuna just watched the messages pile up. He still didn’t quite understand what the actual function of the group was supposed to be, aside from meaningless banter and unnecessary commentary. If anything important came up, Atsuya would tell him directly anyway. Still… he didn’t leave the group.

He genuinely thought his life had been quieter, calmer, before the phone. Better, even. Maybe he should have stayed unreachable. Maybe being disconnected would have spared him this constant sense of being pulled in too many directions at once. His world had become relentlessly busy.

If it wasn’t messages from Yuuji, it was notifications from the committee group chat. If it wasn’t that, it was the Ryomen Exterminators group filled with pointless banter most of the time. If not them, then it's Utahime and Haibara. Sukuna muted almost everything. He ignored messages for hours, sometimes days, pretending the phone didn’t exist.

Still, he couldn’t ignore it completely.

Some messages mattered. Campus assignments. Project deadlines. Vendor schedules. Updates about the next steps in dismantling the Ryomen family’s operations. Whether he liked it or not, some of it directly involved him. So every now and then, he forced himself to open the app, scroll through everything, and read each message carefully just in case something important was buried beneath Suguru’s sarcasm, Satoru’s nonsense, or Yuuji’s endless enthusiasm.

Yuuji was, without question, the most exhausting part of all this.

The boy would casually show up outside Sukuna’s classroom, or wander into the art club, just to greet him. Sometimes it was to pass along greetings from Aunt Mei Mei. Sometimes it was to invite him to hang out with Choso or his other friends from another department. Or sometimes it was nothing at all, just a bright smile, a wave, and an easy familiarity Sukuna didn’t know how to respond to. Truthfully, Sukuna didn’t remember much about Aunt Mei Mei other than her food. He had to admit it was better than what his mom made. His memories of her were a little vague, fragmented. Choso, at least, stood out more clearly—Choso kicking a ball around with Yuuji, laughter echoing in the background. But even those memories felt distant, incomplete, like scenes from someone else’s life.

They also only ever came around during holidays. And during holidays, Sukuna was never home. He was sent away to Ryomen house. Maybe that was why he remembered so little of them. They existed on the edges of his life, appearing briefly before disappearing again. The only thing that stayed vivid in his mind was his aunt’s cooking, rich and comforting in a way nothing else in his childhood ever was.

Sukuna was never a big eater to begin with. He was picky, painfully so. Most days, he ate only because he had to, not because he wanted to. Food, to him, often tasted the same. It's bland and boring. Sometimes he skipped meals entirely, convincing himself that it didn’t matter anyway. Eating felt like an obligation to him, not a pleasure. Though there were exceptions. Blueberries, for one. And then there was his aunt’s cooking.

He remembered it clearly. How, whenever he ate Aunt Mei Mei’s omurice, his appetite came back without effort. He ate more than usual, went back for seconds without thinking, without forcing himself. The warmth of those meals lingered in his memory far longer than most of his childhood did. Thinking about it now made his chest ache in an unfamiliar way.

Maybe… maybe he would actually consider Yuuji’s invitation to visit Aunt Mei Mei? Just for the food, he told himself. He missed her cooking.

Aside from that, Yuuji’s behavior was still incredibly annoying. The boy wasn’t doing anything wrong, per se. He was just too curious. Too invested in Sukuna’s life. Always asking questions, always wanting to know how Sukuna was doing, what he was working on, where he was going next. It felt intrusive, Sukuna didn’t like that kind of attention. He’s not used to it.

And on top of that, Yuuji kept dodging him every time Sukuna asked about the birth certificate Yuuji had promised to find, the answer was always the same. He hadn’t found it yet. He was still looking. He was still asking Ijichi for help. Excuses layered over excuses, delivered with that same sheepish smile. Sukuna’s patience was wearing thin. If he still didn’t get that birth certificate by the end of the month, Sukuna was genuinely considering asking Uraume to sneak into the Itadori residence and retrieve it themselves. He didn’t care how extreme it sounded. He was done waiting.

And speaking of Uraume, thankfully, that kid wasn’t bothering him lately. Uraume was busy too. Very busy. Swamped with work for the campus anniversary project. Sukuna found a petty kind of joy in that fact. He laughed to himself more than once, amused by the image of Uraume buried under those responsibilities. Serves him right. Who told him to sign up as a university student in the first place? Now he could suffer like everyone else.

Truthfully, though, the biggest reason Sukuna had been so overwhelmingly busy these past weeks wasn’t Yuuji, the files, the assignments, or his project with the anniversary.

It was actually Gojo Satoru.

Sukuna was actively avoiding him, by being busy 24/7.

After the nightmare two weeks ago, Sukuna had done everything in his power to stay away from Gojo Satoru. Every possible route, every possible excuse, he used all of them. He changed his schedules, left the apartment early before Satoru woke up, and arrived so late after Satoru was asleep. He also took longer paths just to avoid running into him. If there was even the slightest chance Satoru might be somewhere, Sukuna made sure he wasn’t. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be seen. Because he knew he wasn’t ready for any of that. So Sukuna avoided him. Completely.

And so, avoiding Satoru Gojo had become Sukuna’s frantic routine for the past two weeks.

He started leaving for campus very early every single day—far earlier than he actually needed to. He would step out while the sky was still pale and quiet, when the city had not fully woken up yet. Because, the earlier he arrived, the smaller the chance of running into Gojo Satoru. During the gaps between his classes, Sukuna never lingered in open spaces. He made sure to disappear the moment lectures ended. Most of the time, he hid himself inside the art club room or slipped into the library, choosing places where he could blend into silence and shadows, away from Satoru searching eyes. Sukuna always chose the furthest aisle, the one tucked away at the very end where barely anyone ever passed through. He pulled his cap low over his face, lowered his head, and hoped that Satoru was too busy dealing with the project matters to roam the campus freely and searching for him. And once his classes were over, Sukuna returned to the art club again to spend the rest of the day there. 

He had to approached Utahime to ask for the spare key to the art club room. He claimed he simply needed it to work on his paintings for the exhibition. It wasn't that he was lying, but he felt Utahime didn't need to know that he also needed a quiet place to retreat between his lectures and the start of his work shifts. More importantly, he needed to avoid Gojo Satoru. Utahime had agreed without a second thought, handing over the key as if it were the most natural thing in the world, never questioning why he didn't just go back home. In the art club, Sukuna made his intentions very clear. So, he delivered his best threat to the other club members. No one was allowed to mention his presence if Gojo Satoru ever came looking for him. If Satoru asked, they were to say that Sukuna had never been there at all. Judging by their stiff nods and awkward avoidance afterward, his message had landed exactly as intended. 

That was the only place where he could stay for hours without anyone disturbing him. He was fully absorbed in his paintings. Avoiding Satoru or not, he planned to submit three pieces for the upcoming exhibition anyway so he needed to work more on his paintings. He had already spoken directly with the school administration about it, and to his mild surprise, they had been genuinely enthusiastic. Tengen as the head of the school had expressed clear happiness that Sukuna was participating, praising his contribution to the campus art scene.

For reasons Sukuna couldn’t quite explain, he found Utahime to be genuinely kind. Many people described her as intimidating or frightening, but Sukuna didn’t feel that way at all. She was firm, yes, but fair. Straightforward, but considerate. Somehow, they matched well enough, even if neither of them acknowledged it out loud.

When it was finally time for his shift at the restaurant, Sukuna packed his things and headed straight there. He often worked overtime, pushing himself until late into the night. His body was always exhausted by the end of it, his mind dull and heavy, but stopping wasn’t an option he allowed himself. By the time he returned to Satoru’s apartment, it was usually close to one or two in the morning. Satoru was almost certainly asleep by then. At least, Sukuna hoped so. He didn’t actually know whether Satoru was asleep or awake, but as long as he didn’t run into him, it didn’t matter. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t see Gojo Satoru at all for the entire day and that alone felt like a small victory.

Thank God it seemed that luck was keep on Sukuna’s side, because he almost never ran into Satoru at all. On the rare occasions when they did cross paths, it usually happened on campus, and even then it was nothing more than a brief passing moment. Sukuna would immediately turn away, pretending to be busy with other members or Utahime on the project or suddenly needing to talk to participants about some booths, anything that allowed him to escape without stopping.

And having Utahime around helped more than Sukuna was willing to admit.

Aside from being surprisingly solid for a friendship that was still so new, Utahime carried another very useful advantage, she did not like Gojo Satoru. That alone made her presence feel like an unspoken shield. With Utahime nearby, Satoru rarely lingered, and if he did, Utahime made it clear through her attitude that he was not welcome. Sukuna silently appreciated that more than words could express.

Sukuna found himself wishing that this streak of good luck would continue. Because he genuinely had no idea how he was supposed to face Satoru after what had happened during the nightmare two weeks ago. The thought of it made his chest tighten in an unpleasant way, so he avoided thinking about it altogether. At least all that exhaustion had one small benefit to him. These days, when his body was completely drained, he would fall asleep almost instantly, sinking into a deep, dreamless rest. No nightmares, no memories crawling out of the dark. Sukuna considered that to be a blessing.

However, it didn’t always work that way. If he was too exhausted or not exhausted enough, his body refused to rest. He would lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts spiraling until sleep felt impossible. On nights like those, he had no choice but to take the sleeping pills he had asked Uraume to buy. The same one his grandmother gave to him when he was being difficult.

Uraume had warned him more than once not to take them every day. He had been very clear about the risks of dependency, and it’s not like Sukuna didn’t know that. But Uraume’s tone was firm but careful, like someone who was genuinely worried. So sukuna tried so hard to listen to Uraume, because Uraume always listened to him in return. And mostly because who else was gonna get him illegal sleeping pills if not Uraume. It helped that Uraume was obedient to a fault, and even more helpful that he had absolutely no intention of letting Satoru or worse Yuuji know about Sukuna’s nightmares. That unspoken agreement between them made Sukuna feel slightly safer, even if he would never say it out loud.

Today, the meeting with Atsuya and the others was scheduled in the same place as before, in the very same room. Sukuna deliberately planned to arrive last. Because arriving last meant minimizing his chances of running into Satoru. If he could slip in unnoticed, take his seat, and keep his distance, then perhaps he could get through the meeting without interacting with Satoru, or getting into another argument with Suguru and the others. He only hoped that the meeting would be over quickly.

And this morning, Utahime and Haibara once again asked him to go out for drinks with them. It wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the second. It was the third time they asked him to join their night out. Sukuna had already refused them twice before, always with vague excuses—he was busy, he was tired, he had work later. If he rejected them again today, it would feel rude. Right? And despite how much he liked being alone, Sukuna wasn’t completely heartless. He hated the idea of making things awkward, especially with people who had done nothing but treat him kindly.

He couldn’t even remember exactly when Utahime Iori and Haibara Yuu had become his friends.

Haibara, he remembered he had met him through one of his classes. Haibara had been persistent from the very beginning. Always greeting him, always trying to strike up conversations, always sitting nearby as if proximity alone might eventually turn into familiarity. Sukuna had ignored him at first, then tolerated him, and at some point without realizing it, stopped pushing him away.

Utahime was different.

Sukuna had only met her when he joined the art club at the beginning of the semester, it was like two months ago? Back then, their interactions were minimal and polite, nothing more than brief acknowledgments between people who happened to share the same space. She was just someone he recognized, a familiar face on campus, nothing deeper than that. Sometimes, though, Sukuna would catch Utahime standing quietly in the art room, staring at his paintings. She never lingered once she noticed him. The moment Sukuna entered the room, she would step aside, giving him space, pretending she had simply been passing by. Their exchanges were limited to short comments, simple compliments, careful observations about technique or color. 

Yet unlike Sukuna, Utahime wasn’t a painter. She was a potter. Her works were nothing like the flat stillness of canvas. Utahime’s art had weight and presence. She worked with clay the way some people worked with emotion. She kneaded it, shaping it, forcing it to respond to her hands. She made vases with uneven lips that looked intentionally imperfect, cups with textured surfaces that felt grounding when held, and small sculptures that seemed quiet but deeply expressive. Some pieces were smooth and symmetrical, others rough and asymmetrical, carrying fingerprints and grooves she never bothered to erase.  It was so incredibly beautiful that Sukuna felt inferior to his own work. He wished he could be like Utahime, someone who could express every piece of their art with such grace and beauty.

Sukuna had once stood there longer than he meant to, staring at a series of ceramic vessels she had lined up to dry. The glaze caught the light in subtle ways, deep blues melting into muted earth tones, like something pulled from the ocean and buried in soil at the same time. It wasn’t loud art. It didn’t demand attention.

That was when they started talking more.

Especially after they began working together as part of the committee. Collaborating forced them into longer conversations. They talk about concepts, layouts, themes, and how different forms of art could coexist within the same space. Sukuna found himself exchanging ideas with Utahime more easily than he expected. They spoke the same unspoken language, understood pauses, and didn’t feel the need to fill silence just for the sake of it. Over time, Sukuna realized they shared more than just artistic interest. They were both solitary by nature. Both are selective with people. Neither of them enjoyed large social circles or unnecessary small talk. Whether it was because of art, or because of their personalities, being around Utahime felt uncomplicated. Sukuna felt comfortable. And somehow, without either of them explicitly naming it, that comfort had turned into friendship.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Utahime was the only friend Sukuna had so far. The only person he could truly call a friend—someone he felt close to, even if he still hesitated to define what that closeness actually meant. If Sukuna were allowed to name it, he supposed he would call it friendship. It’s not like he had never really had friends before, so he wasn’t entirely sure what being friends was supposed to feel like.

Was it someone you spent time with willingly?

Someone who stayed on your side, even when it would have been easier to walk away?

Someone who supported you without asking for anything in return?

If those were the criteria, then Utahime fit them all. Because over the past few weeks, Utahime had spent an almost ridiculous amount of time with him, even though most of their classes didn’t overlap. Somehow, they always managed to cross paths. Like before lectures started, during breaks between classes, or in the narrow windows of time when neither of them was supposed to be free. Sometimes they talked about their job as the committee, sometimes their assignments, sometimes about art, and sometimes about nothing important at all. Yet those moments never felt wasted.

To be honest, Sukuna had never intended to make friends when he ran from the Ryomen and entered university. He had already given up on the idea of interacting normally with people. He blamed those seven years of isolation, years stolen from him and replaced with silence, rigid routines, and a world that never resembled the lives of other kids his age. Social connection felt foreign to him now, like a language he had never properly learned. And yet, there was something about Utahime that made him unable to refuse her presence. She was the only person who had ever openly defended him when someone accused him of something he hadn’t done. Something that, in Sukuna’s experience, simply didn’t happen.

Just last week, someone had accused him of spilling watercolor paint over another student’s painting. The reason was absurdly simple, because Sukuna was the one who spent the most time in the art club. People usually chose the easiest target, and Sukuna had learned long ago that he was often that target. But that day, he hadn’t even been there. He had been stuck in the library, buried under books and his recording device. While others muttered and speculated, Utahime had stepped in without hesitation, stating plainly that Sukuna couldn’t have done it because she had been with him earlier and knew he hadn’t gone to the club at all. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t made a scene. She had simply stood beside him and defend him like Sukuna was worth it.

Utahime also the only one besides Yuuji that never failed to encourage him to have more confidence in his paintings. Sukuna, on the other hand, was convinced his work was still terrible—always unfinished, flawed, and in constant need of improvement. He couldn’t see what others claimed to see, especially Utahime, who seemed so protective over his paintings. Whenever he dismissed his own art too harshly, Utahime would visibly bristle, almost offended on behalf of the work itself. Seeing that reaction always made Sukuna think that perhaps Utahime was the first person to truly believe in his art—after Yuuji of course.

The way she stayed beside him while he painted, watching in quiet concentration, as if trying to understand every stroke he laid onto the canvas. She never interrupted, never rushed him, never tried to impose her own ideas unless he asked. She simply observed, present in a way that made Sukuna feel, for the first time, that his art was worth paying attention to.

It was fair to say that Utahime was the first real friend Sukuna had ever had in his life.

Yes, he had friends before he moved to the Ryomen. In the years of his elementary and junior high school, well, if they could even be called that. People he used to hang out with, people he stood beside during breaks or passed time with after school when there was nothing better to do or when he didn’t want to get home to his father and grandfather’s scream. But those connections had always been shallow. They never spent time together beyond that, never shared anything meaningful, never truly stayed.

With Utahime, it was different. They do their arts together. They worked side by side on the anniversary project. They negotiated with vendors as a team, argued over details, compromised, and learned how to trust each other’s judgment. Sometimes they studied together too, especially when Sukuna struggled to understand an assignment or when something simply refused to make sense in his head. Utahime never made him feel stupid for asking. She explained patiently, sometimes more than once, until he finally got it. That kind of consistency was new to him.

As for Haibara Yuu, Sukuna wasn’t entirely sure where to place him yet. Haibara was kind—genuinely kind. At first, Sukuna didn’t know much about him beyond the basics. He knew Haibara was one of Yuuji and Satoru’s friends. He also knew that Haibara was Nanami Kento’s boyfriend, and Sukuna privately thought Nanami was the most attractive man he had ever seen on campus. That thought, however, was something Haibara Yuu absolutely did not need to hear. Because if Haibara ever found out, he would definitely start whining out of jealousy, and Sukuna had no desire to deal with that.

Another thing Sukuna was certain about was, Haibara Yuu seemed to possess an endless supply of energy. Just like Yuuji. The boy talked constantly, laughed easily, joked without effort, and filled every space he entered with a smile and warmth. Sukuna sometimes thought that if the sun ever disappeared from the sky, Japan could simply replace it with Haibara. His brightness was overwhelming, even more blinding than Gojo Satoru’s in its own way. And strangely enough, Sukuna found himself wishing that he could be like that too. Shine so bright it made people feel warm and happy. He hope, one day, he could be like that too.

What Sukuna didn’t understand was why Haibara Yuu was helping him and Utahime in this project. Lately, Haibara had been around far more often than Sukuna expected. He helped with vendor meetings, assisted with planning, showed up whenever Utahime and Sukuna needed an extra pair of hands. And that was exactly what didn’t make sense. Because those responsibilities were supposed to be Megumi’s. Helping with coordination, assisting Utahime, taking care of logistical matters—those had always been Megumi’s role. It was his assignment. His responsibility. Sukuna knew that for a fact. So why was Haibara the one standing there instead?

The question lingered at the back of Sukuna’s mind, quiet but persistent.

Was it because Megumi had asked him to step in—because Megumi didn’t want to meet Sukuna? Well it did look like Megumi didn’t want to be in the same space as him. That possibility sat heavy in Sukuna’s chest.

Did that mean Haibara couldn’t truly be Sukuna’s friend as well? Because he was doing it all for Megumi’s sake.

What if those efforts to bridge the gap with Sukuna weren't born from his own curiosity or kindness, but simply because Megumi had requested it. What if Haibara had no personal desire to be with him at all.

Sukuna knew that Megumi hated him. That much was painfully obvious. Megumi didn’t hide it, not then, and not now. Not in his tone, not in his avoidance, not in the way he looked at him. And Sukuna also knew that Megumi wasn’t alone in that hatred. That Nobara girl and his other friends followed suit, whether openly or quietly, their resentment evident in the way their conversations stopped when Sukuna entered a room, in the way their eyes lingered on him just long enough to make their meaning clear. Sukuna didn’t need anyone to spell it out for him. He understood the language of looks far too well. Every glance thrown his way carried judgment, discomfort, or outright disdain. It told him everything he needed to know. Like he didn't belong here, he was not welcome, they didn’t want him around.

So, the thought gnawed at him. Because he knew Haibara was friends with Megumi, and he looked like he truly belonged to that side. Then it was only a matter of time before Haibara looked at Sukuna the same way too.

Only Utahime didn’t look at him that way. And Sukuna had to admit that Haibara never did either. He never stared at Sukuna with open hostility, never let disgust slip into his expression, never made Sukuna feel unwelcome outright. But based on Sukuna’s past experiences, when one person in a group hated him, the rest usually followed sooner or later. It was almost a rule. Hatred spreads easily. Faster than kindness ever did. And because of that, Sukuna didn’t know whether Haibara truly counted as his friend. Not that anyone would ever ask what their relationship was. No one cared enough for that. But still, Sukuna wanted that too, he wanted Haibara to be his friend.

He wanted to believe that Haibara and Utahime saw him the same way he saw them. He hoped that the sense of comfort he felt when he was with them wasn’t something he was experiencing alone. Because right now, it felt real.

For the past two weeks, the three of them had been together constantly, and as always, Haibara Yuu never ran out of things to talk about. It was almost impressive. If there was silence, he filled it effortlessly. Sometimes he complained about the weather—too hot, too cold, too humid, too unpredictable. Other times he groaned about assignments piling up one after another. And more often than not, the conversation circled back to Nanami Kento, the man Haibara adored with enthusiasm.

Utahime would smack him lightly for acting childish about Nanami, scolding him with a sharp tongue and a tired sigh. But more often than not, she ended up encouraging him anyway. Like last week, when Haibara complained about Nanami being indifferent because he was so busy with his university projects. Haibara was just as busy, of course, yet he still managed to make time for Nanami, Why Nanami didn't do the same for him, he said sadly. Then Utahime told him that being a little childish might earn him more attention, more affection, more love and time from Nanami. Sukuna found it strangely endearing, the way they bickered without malice.

Utahime herself wasn’t much different. From the few times Sukuna had seen her interact with Shoko Ieiri, it became clear that Utahime also liked to act childish on purpose when she wanted something. Just yesterday, Sukuna had caught her hugging Shoko tightly, her face scrunched into an exaggerated pout—only for her to wink at Sukuna over Shoko’s shoulder the moment their eyes met. Whatever Utahime was planning, Sukuna had no doubt it would work. 

From every complaint he overheard, Sukuna could draw a single conclusion that no matter what Utahime or Haibara asked for, Shoko and Nanami will always give in, no matter how odd the request was, they always made it happen. Seeing that made a cold, empty sort of warmth bloom in his heart, leaving him feeling more alone than before. A reminder of a kind of devotion he wasn't sure he deserved.

Sukuna didn’t know that love can simply make people willing to give in, no matter how transparent the manipulation was. Sukuna didn’t really understand it. He had never truly been in a romantic relationship with anyone. He had never been loved that way. No matter how hard he tried not to be childish, people left him anyway. And honestly—who would ever love someone like him?

So, whenever Utahime and Haibara grew loud like this, Sukuna stayed where he was—quiet, observant, just being a faithful listener. He spoke up occasionally, offering a comment here and there, but more often than not, their stories ended up making him laugh if not curious. It still felt strange, how easily they could pull that reaction out of him without even trying. Right now, the three of them were sitting in front of their usual convenience store. Just around the corner from the campus entrance.

Whenever they finished their meeting with vendors, or when the project became too overwhelming. They always escaped here. It was their unspoken refuge. They sat on a square wooden bench out front, rough around the edges, clearly handmade. Sukuna was fairly certain it had been built by the elderly couple who owned the store, a quiet pair who always watched them with fond, knowing smiles.

Today, the late afternoon air was a little cold but bearable. The store’s sliding door chimed softly every time someone entered or left, mixing with the distant hum of the wind kisses the trees and Haibara’s endless chatter. For a brief moment, Sukuna let himself sit there, listening to their friends bickering over something, savoring the bite of the cold air against his skin, just existing.

Sukuna liked the fact that, even when the air had turned sharp and cold, the three of them still ordered blueberry ice cream—their shared favorite. Well, shared wasn’t entirely accurate. Utahime didn’t actually like blueberry ice cream at all, but she refused to be the odd one out. She would rather force herself to take a few bites than sit there without one while the others enjoyed theirs together. That made Sukuna smile a little, watching Utahime grimace with disgust at the taste of a blueberry ice cream, but still refused to buy a different one because she just hated to be left out.

Haibara, on the other hand, genuinely liked blueberry ice cream but he was absolutely terrible with cold. Every single time, he complained about how freezing it was. He would grimace, clutch the stick like it had personally betrayed him, and whine dramatically about his teeth hurting. Which, frankly, made no sense. Of course it was cold. It was ice cream. And he was eating it at the start of winter. What did he expected.

Sukuna was certain it wouldn’t be long before snow started falling. The temperature had been steadily dropping over the past few weeks, and light drizzles had become more frequent. The air carried that unmistakable stillness, the kind that always came right before the first snowfall. And maybe it was the cold seeping into his bones, or maybe it was the strange warmth of having two people sitting so close beside him, but Sukuna found himself doing something he rarely ever did. He finally found the courage to ask Haibara about what had been on his mind lately.

“Hey, Haibara,” Sukuna said quietly, leaning forward as he licked his ice cream, the cold sweetness spreading across his tongue. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hm? Sure,” Haibara replied, sitting to Sukuna’s left. He immediately winced after biting into his ice cream again, clutching it with a pained expression. “Why is it this cold?”

Sukuna ignored the complaint and asked, “Why are you here?”

Both Haibara and Utahime turned to look at him at the same time, their expressions openly confused. Utahime tilted her head slightly, brows knitting together, while Haibara blinked a few times, clearly waiting for Sukuna to explain what he meant.

Sukuna swallowed, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt. “I mean,” he clarified, choosing his words carefully, “why are you even here with us? You’re not even part of the art club. This stuff—vendors, arts and logistics—it’s not really your responsibility.” He hesitated, then added, more quietly, “Shouldn’t it be Megumi?” The moment the words left his mouth, regret hit him. Damn it.

Hell. He sounded pissed. Was his tone too harsh? Did it sound like he was pushing Haibara away? Was he making a mistake?

Fuck. He messed up. Was this going to turn into a problem? 

For a brief second, Sukuna tensed, already bracing himself for rejection, for discomfort, for that familiar shift in atmosphere where people started pulling away.

Sukuna sometimes cursed himself for the way he spoke. He never seemed capable of using a friendly tone, no matter how hard he tried. He did not even understand why every sentence that left his mouth always sounded sharp, irritated, as if he were constantly picking a fight. It was never his intention, yet it always ended up that way. He forced himself to focus on the ice cream in his hand instead, dragging his tongue slowly over the cold surface. The chill bit at his senses, grounding him. He ignored the rapid thudding of his heart, a rhythm so loud in his chest that he worried Utahime, sitting so close next to him, might be able to hear it if she leaned any closer.

Then, more carefully this time, he continued, “I mean… isn’t this not your responsibility? Helping me and Utahime, I mean.”

But Sukuna was taken back because Haibara didn’t look offended per se. Instead, he laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Oh, that?” Haibara shifted his sitting position, moving closer until Sukuna felt slightly squeezed between the two of them. Haibara never seemed to notice personal space, or perhaps he simply did not care. “Utahime asked me to help her. Why? Does my being here bother you?” His wide eyes lifted to Sukuna’s face, and there was something almost wounded in his expression.

“NO! Of course not!” Sukuna answered too quickly, too loudly.

Both Haibara and Utahime flinched in surprise. Utahime studied Sukuna for a moment longer, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in understanding. She didn’t interrupt. She simply waited for him to explain what he really meant. And Sukuna’s chest tightened.

“I—what I mean is,” Sukuna immediately backtracked, his voice lowering, more cautious now, “I was thinking maybe you would be the one who feels uncomfortable.”

Haibara blinked, then shrugged. “No.” Haibara Yuu, aside from being overly friendly, could also be like this sometimes—casual to the point of indifference. “I like helping you, Sukuna. Helping Utahime too. I like that I get to make new friends.”

Before Sukuna could respond, Utahime suddenly tossed her ice cream away. It was still half-full, but she did not hesitate for even a second. She crossed her arms and turned to Sukuna, fixing him with a sharp, demanding stare.

“Why would you even think that?” she asked. There was no room for excuses in her tone. She wanted an honest answer.

“Well…” Sukuna hesitated, his voice losing its firmness. “You’re Megumi’s friends. And all of Megumi’s friends kind of hate me. So, I thought that might make things awkward for you? Being forced to work with someone your friend despises?” His words sounded uncertain, as though he needed confirmation that his logic made sense—that his worry was not entirely irrational.

“Bullshit,” Utahime scoffed. “Megumi has always been like that. He mixes his personal issues into everything. That’s exactly why I asked Haibara for help.” She clicked her tongue in irritation.

“I’m not about to let our ideas and hard work fall apart just because Megumi can’t control his emotions. And besides,” she added bluntly, “I’m not even friends with Megumi, you know. I only hang around them because of Shoko. I’m pretty sure Haibara’s the same.”

“Yeah. I agree,” Haibara chimed in easily. “Why should you be the one punished just because his relationship with Yuuji fell apart? I believe that whatever the reason is, it’s not your fault they broke up.” He turned to Sukuna with a bright grin.

“Honestly, I wanted to be friends with you from the start, Sukuna. You look really cool the first time I saw you. Remember? I tried talking to you in class and you completely ignored me. You really hurt my feelings, you know!” He dramatically pressed a hand to his chest, as if stabbed through the heart. His ice cream was already gone. He stood up, walked past Utahime, and casually tossed the empty wrapper into a trash bin several steps behind her without even looking.

Sukuna could only nod. He stared at them dumbfounded. He did not know what reaction he was supposed to give. Relief, confusion, gratitude—they all tangled together inside his chest. He tried so hard to smile, didn't want to be rude but he didn't think it worked because he suddenly felt embarrassed. His eyes immediately moved to his ice cream on his hands, the surface slightly melted now, his thoughts tangled and messy. He didn’t know why that answer made his chest feel lighter.

“Just forget about Megumi,” Utahime said decisively. “Let him deal with his own issues.” She planted both hands on her hips, leaning slightly forward as if trying to intimidate Sukuna into agreeing. It was not truly threatening, but it was persistent—Utahime at her most stubborn.

“What matters is that you’re coming with us today, right?” she continued. “Drinks. Tonight. At my place.”

Her eyes narrowed with determination. “You can’t dodge it this time, Sukuna. I even asked Shoko to stay at her parents’ place so we can drink freely at my apartment.”

“Yes please, Sukuna! Come on~” Haibara added quickly, nodding in agreement. “We really need to drink a little. This week has been exhausting. There’s been sooooo much work. I feel like my body hasn’t relaxed even once.” He let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his shoulders as if already imagining the relief of sitting down with a drink in his hand, surrounded by his friends.

“I have to work tonight,” Sukuna replied after a moment. “I don't think I can’t take a day off.”

The truth was, he really did want to drink with Utahime and Haibara. The thought tempted him more than he liked to admit. It would be the first time he actually drank with people his own age—friends, no less. Usually, when he drank, it was with Ryomen business clients, and even then he never allowed himself more than a glass or two. He had to stay sharp during meetings, always alert.

The only other person he ever drank with was Uraume and even then, Uraume never drank at all. He merely accompanied Sukuna, watching over him quietly. And Sukuna himself was not particularly fond of alcohol anyway. Whenever he got drunk, he tended to forget what he had done, fragments of memory slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold onto them.

Uraume once told him that he should never drink around people he did not trust. Whatever the deeper meaning behind that advice was, Sukuna had never questioned it. He simply followed it. He would never ever drink with someone he did not trust in the first place.

“Come on, Sukuna~” Haibara whined, sitting down and clasping his hands together. He put on the most pitiful expression he could manage, lips trembling dramatically as if begging for mercy.

Sukuna let out a long breath, finally giving in.

“…Fine.”

The moment the word left his mouth, Haibara jumped up in excitement, cheering as if he had just won the lottery. It was almost absurd how happy he looked, as though convincing Sukuna to drink with them was some kind of monumental achievement. Utahime, on the other hand, only smiled faintly. Sukuna returned the gesture with a small, restrained smile of his own.

“I’ll come after work,” Sukuna added. “It’ll be late, though—probably just before midnight.”

“Hm. That’s fine. It’s the weekend anyway,” Utahime said with a shrug. “We’ve got all night to drink, without worrying about morning classes. I’ll send you the address—don’t even think about flaking!”

Sukuna nodded, only to be suddenly pulled into a hug by Haibara. It was a quick, warm hug.

“…Ah,” Sukuna stiffened for half a second before forcing himself to relax.

Right. If he really wanted to be friends with Haibara, it seemed he would have to get used to this kind of casual physical contact. 

The vibration of his phone in his jeans pocket pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. Sukuna slipped his hand into the right pocket of his jeans and took his phone out, his brows knitting slightly when he saw a new message from Yuuji.

Yuuji: Hey. Tonight, after the meeting, I’m going to Choso’s place. Auntie is visiting. Want to come with me?

Sukuna typed his reply quickly.

Can’t. I already have plans with my friends.

He had barely started to put his phone away when the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Yuuji: Friends? Who? Where?

Sukuna scoffed softly as he read the message. Typical Yuuji, so nosy, persistent, and completely incapable of minding his own business. Ignoring the notification, he felt a flicker of annoyance. Where he went and who he spent his time with was his business alone. It wasn’t Yuuji’s concern where he was headed or who he was meeting. Sukuna had never interrogated his brother about his own outings, so he saw no reason to entertain this sudden, uninvited curiosity.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention forward again.

Haibara was in the middle of animatedly retelling an interesting plot of a tragic movie he had recently wanted to watch. His hands moved wildly as he spoke, voice rising and falling with exaggerated emotion. Apparently, based on the reviews, it had been so sad that it made people cry dramatically but he absolutely refused to watch it with Nanami.

“I can’t let him see me like that,” Haibara said, clutching his chest. “It would ruin my image. Completely.”

Utahime had been listening with a bored expression, arms crossed, until Haibara suddenly pointed at her. “So I made a decision, you guys will watch it with me tonight instead!”

Utahime only responded with a lazy nod, clearly regretting every life decision that had led her to this moment.

Sukuna watched the exchange quietly, a small, almost unnoticeable smile tugging at his lips.

-----------------------

The meeting tonight with Atsuya Ryomen and the others went smoothly—at least on the surface.

Everyone was already seated in their usual spots by the time Sukuna arrived, and fortunately for him, he was the last one to enter the room tonight. He slipped inside quietly, closing the door behind him without making unnecessary noise. Two of the members—the girls—were absent tonight. And from the moment Sukuna entered the room, he could feel it.

Satoru Gojo’s eyes were on him.

Satoru was watching him the entire time, as if deliberately waiting for an opportunity to speak to him, to corner him and demand an explanation why Sukuna had been avoiding him so persistently these past weeks. Sukuna refused to give him that satisfaction. He kept his gaze lowered, focused on the documents spread across the table, on the notes on his hands that Uruame gave, on the sound of Atsuya’s voice, on Yuuji who looked so serious reading something from one of the files on the table.

Sukuna was careful not to meet Satoru’s eyes even once. The tension crawled under his skin, settling uncomfortably in his chest, but he forced himself to stay still, composed and unreadable.

Atsuya Ryomen was the one who broke the silence. “So, as soon as Sukuna‘s done with the files I gave to him,” Atsuya said, his tone steady and controlled, “news related to Ryomen’s illegal businesses will begin surfacing one by one. It will depend on how fast Sukuna can find their mistakes. He's the only one here who knows how they work.”

Everyone straightened slightly at that, Atsuya continued. “After that, we’ll assist the victims in filing lawsuits. Civil claims. Collective actions, where possible. We got some allies to help with that stuff.”

He paused, then shifted his gaze toward Sukuna. “That means I need you to work faster,” Atsuya said plainly. “Go through the files again. Carefully. Identify the gaps—where the evidence can be reinforced, where the reports can be supported legally. We’ll use those points to strengthen the cases once the victims step forward.”

Sukuna nodded once. “I’ll handle it,” he replied calmly, even though he could already feel his headache thinking about all those numbers. He would need to comb through every document, every transaction record, every detail tied to Ryomen’s operations—searching for exploitable weaknesses that could stand up in court.

As the discussion continued, Sukuna remained silent, listening, absorbing everything. But even then, he could still feel it. Because Satoru’s gaze never left him.

Atsuya Ryomen turned his attention toward Sukuna again, his expression serious but measured. “Have you figured out how the embezzled money from their illegal operations is being funneled into the shell companies?” he asked.

Sukuna remained where he had been standing near the door, shoulder to shoulder with Uraume. He did not move closer. He did not sit. His posture was straight, guarded.

“Yes. There are several suspicious subsidiaries. They’ve been receiving regular funding from legitimate Ryomen-owned businesses across Japan, but I never even knew they existed. Back when I used to visit our branch offices, I was sure I had memorized it all, but the ones I saw in those files? I didn’t recognize a single one of them.” Sukuna replied calmly. “So, yeah. I need a little more time. I’ll try to figure it out before the end of this week.”

Before Atsuya could respond, Suguru scoffed. “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time hanging around with your so-called friends,” Suguru said coldly, “you could finish it today.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He didn’t understand what Suguru Geto’s problem was, but it was obvious now that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with this. His hatred felt personal to Sukuna. Sure, he didn’t look like he hated him the first time they met. But ever since the last meeting, Suguru had been openly hostile toward him. 

“Suguru,” Atsuya warned, his tone sharp.

“It’s true!” Suguru shot back, refusing to back down. “He’s being careless. Wandering around like that puts him at risk, and if something happens to him, it puts all of us in danger too.” Suguru himself didn’t fully understand what he was feeling. Was it concern—as a son worried about his father, as an older brother watching over the younger ones? Or was it jealousy?

Suguru hadn’t lived a normal life in years. Yes, he could leave the house, go outside, function like everyone else but it wasn’t the same. Sukuna, on the other hand, was living freely, almost recklessly, as if he didn’t care about the sacrifices people around him had made. Suguru hated seeing that.

“Mind your own fucking business, Geto.” Sukuna’s voice was low, sharp, and unforgiving as his eyes finally met Suguru’s.

“Hey! Language!” Atsuya snapped, his patience wearing thin.

Sukuna let out a bitter scoff. “You’re not my parent, Atsuya. Stop acting like it.”

For a split second, Atsuya looked genuinely hurt. The reprimand on his lips vanished, replaced by an expression Sukuna rarely saw—raw, and wounded. His eyes dulled, shoulders stiffening as if the words had struck somewhere far deeper than intended. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Atsuya straightened, his face settling back into its usual calm neutrality, as though nothing had happened at all. But the silence that followed was heavier than any raised voice.

“You’ve misunderstood, Suguru.” Yuuji finally spoke up, unwilling to stay silent any longer as he watched Sukuna being cornered like that. He refused to repeat the mistake he had made in the past—standing by while Sukuna was isolated and blamed for something that was never his fault to begin with.

“Sukuna has been busy handling the campus anniversary event. He’s one of the committee,” Yuuji continued, his tone steady but firm. “So, that’s why he’s more occupied than usual. We’ve been divided into teams based on our responsibilities, and Sukuna was assigned a fairly important role with his friends. The same goes for me, Satoru, and Uraume. All of us have been extremely busy these past two weeks.”

Suguru responded with an irritated scoff, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Yeah?” he said flatly. “Must be nice being a college student.”

There was something bitter buried beneath Suguru’s words, a small but unmistakable jab that Atsuya immediately picked up on. Sukuna felt it too and he was already preparing to fire back—

—but Yuuji shook his head subtly in Sukuna’s direction. And just like that, Sukuna swallowed the venomous reply he had been ready to throw at Suguru Geto.

Atsuya rubbed his temples and let out a long, tired sigh. “Alright,” he said at last. “I think that’s enough for today.” The room fell silent as he straightened.

Atsuya continued. “Once Sukuna finishes going through the files next week, we’ll start stirring things up for the Ryomen clan on social media and in court. I want all of you to monitor the developments closely. By next week, Sukuna, I need you to be completely done with the documents I gave you so we can begin submitting evidence to the police and several journalists.”

His gaze moved across the room, lingering briefly on each of them.

“And please,” Atsuya added, his voice lowering, heavier now, “take care of yourselves once news about the Ryomen clan starts appearing on television and other media. I’m certain they won’t stay quiet. It’s only a matter of time.” He paused. “Once Kenjaku and my mother return from their business overseas,” Atsuya said calmly, “the war will truly begin.”

Sukuna swallowed, the thought of Kenjaku and his grandmother returning had tightening something sharp in his chest. If the attacks truly began this week, it meant their return to Japan was only a matter of time. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready to face them again—emotionally, mentally, or otherwise.

“And Sukuna,” Atsuya added calmly, his tone leaving no room for refusal, “I want to speak with you after this. Just the two of us. Everyone else, leave.”

Suguru was the first to stand. He stomped his foot against the floor like an irritated child denied a toy, his expression openly displeased. Sukuna narrowed his eyes, watching him without comment. Suguru shot him one last sharp look before turning away. Satoru followed right after—too close behind Suguru, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. Sukuna wasn’t sure why he noticed it, or why it lingered in his thoughts longer than it should have, but for some reason, it caught his attention.

Then Uraume left quietly. Yuuji was the last to move. He lingered by the door, eyes fixed on Sukuna as if he hated the idea of leaving him alone in the room with Atsuya Ryomen. The concern was naked on his face, unguarded. Sukuna met his gaze and offered a thin smile—small, controlled, meant to reassure. It’s fine, he silently told him. It’s just Atsuya Ryomen. Sukuna can handle him.

Yuuji stepped closer anyway. He placed a hand on Sukuna’s shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze before patting his back. He leaned in just enough to whisper for Sukuna to call him later. With that the door finally closed. Silence settled heavily in the room.

Atsuya tapped the table once in front of him, a quiet but commanding sound, gesturing for Sukuna to sit. Sukuna didn’t move immediately. His body remained tense, instincts sharp, every sense alert. Then, slowly, he took the seat across from Atsuya Ryomen. It was the first time they had ever sat like this—face to face, with no one else present. Atsuya studied him for a long moment, sharp eyes unreadable. Not hostile. Not warm either. Just assessing, as if Sukuna were a problem that required careful calculation.

“You’ve grown,” Atsuya said at last, folding his hands together. 

Sukuna stiffened but he said nothing.

Silence stretched again, heavier this time.

“You already know why I asked everyone to leave,” Atsuya went on. “Look, I know I said we had time, I said that you still had time to enjoy your life, and I apologize—it looks like we don’t have as much as I thought. It’s just a matter of time Kenjaku and your grandmother come back from the state.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. “And what do you want from me?” he asked quietly.

Atsuya’s expression softened just a fraction, not with pity, but with something more dangerous. If one looked closely, Atsuya’s face did resemble his mother’s in certain ways. The sharpness of their features was the most striking similarity—hard lines that made both of them appear intimidating even in silence. The Ryomen clan was infamous for that very trait, faces carved with severity, eyes that seemed to judge before words were ever spoken. Sukuna had inherited it as well.

Yuuji, however, had not. Despite having the same face as Sukuna, Yuuji looked nothing like a Ryomen. His features were softer, warmer, shaped far more by his father’s side. There was nothing in his face that hinted at the cruelty or harshness associated with the Ryomen name.

“I don’t want to waste time,” Atsuya said, his sharp gaze locking onto Sukuna. “So I’ll get straight to the point.” He didn’t pause long enough for Sukuna to prepare himself. “I want you to get close to Gojo Satoru. Actually, let me be blunt: I want you to seduce him. Make him fall for you. I want that man under your thumb.” His voice was firm, decisive. Spoken as if this were an order, not a suggestion.

Sukuna could only stare at him, mouth slightly open in disbelief. For a split second, he thought he must have misheard. He was about to respond but Atsuya raised a hand, stopping him before he could speak.

“Before you interrupt me and get angry, I need you to understand something.” Atsuya continued, his expression tightening, “Suguru is right.” The words seemed to cost him. Atsuya paused, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to admit.

“There is one thing you must never do, Sukuna,” he said quietly. “Underestimate Kenjaku and my mother.”

Sukuna’s hand tightened against his leg. Atsuya was acting as if Sukuna didn't know them—as if Sukuna didn't know their methods, as if Sukuna didn't spent half of his life with them. As if Sukuna didn't know how easily they could ruin him. He’d spent seven years in that house for God's sake. No one knew the depths of their malice better than he did.

“I know them inside and out,” Atsuya went on. “He will do anything—anything—to get what he wants. And I refuse to let one of you get hurt because we were careless.” His eyes hardened. “That’s why you need an alliance with Gojo Satoru. Do whatever it takes. Gain his protection. He is the heir of the strongest clan in Japan. As long as you are under his wing, Kenjaku will think twice before touching you.”

Sukuna let out a short, humorless laugh. It sounded almost genuine, as if he’d just heard the most ridiculous joke imaginable.

“And here’s one thing you need to understand, Atsuya,” Sukuna said coolly. “That will never happen.”

“Please. You have to do it, Sukuna.”

“Why me?” Sukuna shot back immediately. “Why does it have to be me again?”

Atsuya’s brows knit together in mild disbelief. “Why?” he repeated. “You don’t see the way that Gojo kid looks at you?”

Sukuna stiffened.

“I know ‘love’ is a strong word,” Atsuya continued, undeterred, “but I know what that look means. His eyes light up when he sees you. Like you’re a star hanging in his darkest night.” He shook his head slightly. “That man likes you. A lot.”

Sukuna’s expression twisted into the strangest look he’d ever given anyone. His brows furrowed deeply, confusion written all over his face.

What kind of nonsense was this?

Gojo Satoru despised him. He had hated him from the very beginning. From the first meeting, the tension between them had been sharp and unmistakable. There was no warmth there. Only provocation, irritation, and pity? Something Sukuna refused to name. Because he knew, the only reason Satoru put up with him was Yuuji.  It’s for Yuuji’s sake and nothing more.

“What makes you think this is a good idea, Atsuya?” Sukuna scoffed. “If you don’t trust your own plan, if you don’t have enough allies to protect your children, then why start any of this in the first place?” He emphasized the word children, deliberately aiming it like a blade. Sukuna was certain Atsuya didn’t truly care about him or Yuuji. The idea that this man was suddenly concerned for the nephews he had abandoned years ago was laughable. Pure nonsense.

Atsuya didn’t respond immediately. For the first time, something cracked across his expression—not anger, not defensiveness, but a quiet, wounded heaviness.

“You think I don’t care,” Atsuya said slowly.

Sukuna didn’t deny it.

Atsuya exhaled, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I know I’ve failed you,” he admitted. “I know I wasn’t there when I should have been. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do everything I can now.” His gaze sharpened again, resolute.

“I know you don't trust me, but this isn’t about trust,” Atsuya said. “It’s about survival. And right now, Gojo Satoru is the safest shield you could possibly stand behind.”

Sukuna clenched his jaw. “I don’t need a shield,” he muttered.

Atsuya met his glare evenly. “Everyone does,” he said. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is, Sukuna,” Atsuya said, his tone firm but strained. “I know you’re smart. You understand how clans work—how dirty their politics can be. The moment we move against the Ryomen publicly, they won’t stay quiet. It will only be a matter of time before they realize we’re the ones behind it. And only God knows what they’ll do to us once they uncover this entire plan.”

Sukuna let out a sharp scoff. “Oh, come on, Atsuya. Don’t drag me into this with that nonsense,” he sneered. “Just admit that you only want to protect your own children. You just don’t want history to repeat itself to your children." His eyes darkened. “So, spare me the act. You’re not doing this for me. You? protecting me? That’s bullshit.”

“Watch your mouth, young man,” Atsuya snapped.

Sukuna continued coldly, unfazed. “No. I’m not an idiot, Atsuya. Don’t try to move me around like a pawn on your chessboard just so you can win a war you started on your own.” His voice sharpened. “Whatever we do, Kenjaku will know immediately that you’re behind it. He was part of you before he betrayed you, right? Tracking you down will be easy for him. And now you need Gojo as your shield to protect us?" Sukuna let out a snort of disgust.

“Think of it however you please, Sukuna. The reality is that we need a powerful alliance to protect you, whether you like it or not,” Atsuya shot back. His patient was running thin. “We need the Gojo clan on our side.”

“Then tell me,” Sukuna said flatly, “who exactly are your allies in this plan? You don’t have enough backup, do you?”

“We have Kamo and Zenin.”

Sukuna stared at him in disbelief. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Listen,” Atsuya insisted. “Kamo—we can trust Kamo. You know my cousin—your aunt—married into the Kamo clan, right? I trust them. They won’t betray us. And as for Zenin…” He hesitated briefly. “I know the Zenin have a reputation for being close to the Ryomen. But they agreed to help. For now, we can trust them.”

Sukuna laughed harshly, the sound devoid of humor. “You’re a fool, Atsuya. Kamo alone isn’t enough. And what? Zenin you said?” He shook his head in disbelief. “God, you’re truly an idiot. I know how the Zenin operate—we can’t trust them.”

“That’s why I’m telling you to get Gojo on our side,” Atsuya said firmly. “We need backup.”

“So you didn’t think this through?” Sukuna snapped. “I thought you’d been planning this for years? I never imagined you’d be this careless, Atsuya.”

Atsuya inhaled slowly. “Alright. I know I made a mistake. But please—you’re already part of this plan too. Do something.”

“Oh?” Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “Is that so? A mistake?”

Atsuya fell silent, staring at Sukuna like a man who’d been caught red-handed. Sukuna wasn’t exaggerating when he thought that if the man in front of him were Yuuji, he would have already slammed his head against the table by now.

“What did you do?” Sukuna asked, suspicion thick in his voice.

Atsuya didn’t answer immediately. He only played with the candy stick in his mouth, looking disturbingly like a child caught after doing something wrong.

“I’m… so sorry,” Atsuya finally said, letting out a long sigh.

“Tell me exactly what mistake you made,” Sukuna growled, his fists clenching tightly as he struggled to contain his anger, “or I will flip this table over and smash your head with it.”

“I—I accidentally told them that Gojo Satoru was part of our team,” Atsuya admitted. “After hearing that, the Zenin demanded that I secure an alliance with Gojo as well. They even threatened that if we fail to obtain Gojo’s full support, they’ll withdraw completely and refuse to provide any assistance.”

“Fuck…” Sukuna cursed under his breath. He lowered his head, fingers threading violently through his hair. Atsuya didn’t interrupt him this time. He didn’t try to correct Sukuna for swearing like before, he simply stayed silent. Because he knew he had already ruined everything.

For a Ryomen, Atsuya was utterly foolish and useless. How could he dare to initiate something like this for years with nothing but Kamo and Zenin as his back up, when one of them had a long history of betrayal written into their bones? What a fucking joke.

Sukuna had crossed paths with the Zenin several times in the past, had worked alongside them just enough to know exactly what kind of people they were. Snakes—every last one of them. They only ever looked out for their own benefit, indifferent to alliances or loyalty. If there was something to gain, they would take it without hesitation, and if someone stood in their way, they would crush them just as easily. Promises meant nothing to them. Trust meant even less.

And while Sukuna had never directly worked with the Kamo clan, he knew their reputation well enough. They were quiet, calculating, rarely stirring unnecessary chaos. His aunt being part of their clan now could be an advantage—perhaps even a small safety net. Kamo might help. They might even be reliable.

But Zenin? Having Zenin on their side could destroy everything. And thinking about Zenin betraying them and then working together with Kenjaku? Oh they would drag all of them straight into hell.

Which was exactly why—no matter how much Sukuna despised it—there was only one viable path forward.

Sukuna didn’t care what the Zenin truly wanted from Gojo, really. He didn’t care what kind of leverage or political gain they were chasing. All he knew is, if Gojo stood on their side, this plan would become infinitely easier to execute. Protection alone would already tilt the scales in their favor. With Gojo’s name attached, success itself would no longer feel like a distant hope. It would become inevitable. He couldn't deny that what Atsuya said was true. Having Satoru on their side as a shield would help them in any worst-case scenario.

Sukuna bit down on his lip, his jaw tightening. “What about your son?” he asked at last. “He seems close to Gojo.”

Atsuya frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Your son. Suguru. Have him do it. I’m sure it’d be easier.”

“Sukuna, you know he’s only my adopted son,” Atsuya replied immediately. “The Zenin won’t accept that. Suguru is an outsider to them.”

“Then what about Yuuji?”

Atsuya stiffened. “Are you insane? They’re close friends.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Sukuna said flatly. “Gojo would do anything for Yuuji. He even put up with me because I’m Yuuji's brother.”

“Sukuna.” Atsuya’s tone shifted into a warning. He knew Sukuna was grasping at excuses—anything to avoid being the one who had to do this. “You understand better than anyone that it won’t work. Satoru and Yuuji will never have a relationship beyond friendship. And you know just as well that the Zenin won’t be satisfied with something like that. Friendship means nothing to them.”

Sukuna let out an irritated huff. Fuck this. “I guess I don’t have any other choice, huh?” he muttered bitterly. Once again, he was being forced to do something he wanted nothing to do with. He was just a tool, after all. Running away from his grandmother hadn't changed a thing. All that effort—escaping their tight grip had been for nothing. In the end, he was right back where he started, standing still in the same place as before. The leash was still around his neck, the only difference was the hand holding it. His life had never truly been his own.

“So you agree?” Atsuya asked cautiously.

“Fuck no,” Sukuna snapped. “But what choice do I have? Do you think I can just walk away?” His eyes burned. “As much as I hate this plan, I still have to do it if I don’t want to be crushed by the two most vicious clans in Japan. Because I know exactly how brutal the Zenin and the Ryomen can be when they work together.”

“Thank—”

“No,” Sukuna cut him off sharply. “I don’t need that. I’m only doing this because I refuse to be dragged into a failed plan that endangers me and my brother.” His voice dropped, lethal and cold. “And you’d better not make another mistake, Atsuya. Because I swear I will discard you and your children without hesitation once Gojo is on my side.”

Atsuya swallowed hard. For the first time, he truly saw it—how terrifying his nephew was. How much he resembled her. A true Ryomen, through and through. Sukuna knew how to threaten, how to negotiate, how to maneuver between clans with nothing but sharp words and sharper intent.

People liked to call Atsuya brilliant. He almost wanted to laugh at himself. If they ever met Sukuna, they would change their minds instantly.

“How much time do we have?” Sukuna asked. He knew that Zenin never made demands without a deadline.

“Less than a month,” Atsuya answered quietly. “Before the first lawsuit and the initial broadcast airs, they want you to publicly announce your relationship with Gojo Satoru. Your connection to the Gojo heir will serve as a guarantee—both for safety and for the success of this plan.”

A silent curse burned in Sukuna’s throat.

How could someone as rough and jaded as he was ever hope to charm Satoru Gojo into a relationship—especially with only a month on the clock? It was an impossible game. It felt as though fate were openly mocking him, dangling his survival just out of reach.

Sukuna felt a flicker of regret for agreeing at all but it was pointless now. There was no backing out. The damage had already been done. Walking away wouldn’t fix anything. It would only make everything far worse.

-----------------------

Sukuna regretted many things today.

He regretted agreeing to drink with Utahime and Haibara.

Because barely thirty minutes after arriving at Utahime’s apartment—an apartment that, as fate cruelly mocked him, was only two blocks away from Satoru’s place. Like everything in existence was hell-bent on dragging him right back to that man.

Sukuna had been immediately dragged into the living room. The coffee table there was already overflowing with empty beer cans, and before he could even properly process what was happening, a cold can was pressed into his hand. At that point, Utahime and Haibara had already gone through four cans each. In the name of friendship, they had said, as if that explained everything. Sukuna, of course, gave in. Not because he actually wanted to get drunk today, but because after everything that had happened that day, especially after the meeting with Atsuya, he desperately needed something to take the edge off. If he didn’t loosen up even a little, he was fairly certain his thoughts would eat him alive.

And now, here he was. 

Utahime and Haibara were clearly tipsy by now, but in a surprisingly manageable way. Their cheeks were flushed, their movements a little more relaxed, their laughter coming easier than usual. Sukuna, on the other hand, could already feel the alcohol creeping through his system. His head felt light. Too light. His vision swayed ever so slightly, the room tilting just enough to make him uneasy. He was fairly sure his face had turned tomato-red by now, heat pooling beneath his skin in a way he absolutely despised.

What shocked him most was how well Utahime and Haibara could handle their alcohol. More than ten cans sat crushed and discarded across the table and the floor, evidence of their steady pace, yet neither of them seemed anywhere near losing control. Their faces were flushed, yes—but they were still walking around without issue, rummaging through the kitchen for snacks, arguing over movie choices, switching films on a whim, even casually replying to messages on their phones as if they were completely sober.

Meanwhile, Sukuna was only on his fourth drink. And he didn’t dare do anything. Standing up felt like a terrible idea. Sitting still was the only thing keeping the world from spinning completely out of control. He didn’t trust his balance at all. One wrong move and he was certain he’d end up face-first on Utahime’s floor. So he stayed exactly where he was, leaning back into the couch, eyes half-lidded, pretending he was doing just fine. Which, of course, he absolutely was not. Not really.

All day, while working, his mind had been stuck on Atsuya’s words. He couldn’t stop replaying that conversation, over and over, until it felt like a dull ache behind his eyes. How had his life ended up like this again? Just when he thought he had escaped the suffocating clan politics, he was being dragged straight back into them. Forced to navigate the same exhausting power games he had spent years trying to leave behind. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was now expected to draw the attention of the Gojo clan’s heir. The deadline was less than a month. That thought alone made his chest tighten. Sukuna wasn’t even sure he could do it if he were given a year, or two. The idea that Gojo Satoru could ever bend for him—fall in love with him, care deeply enough to do anything for him, to the point of willingly using his influence as the future head of the Gojo clan for Sukuna’s sake. It felt absurd and impossible. Almost cruel to even imagine.

Sukuna tried to ignore most of it for now. He just wanted to lose himself in the alcohol and the company of his new friends. For a brief moment, he wanted to forget his problems and just live entirely in the now. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting the distant hum of the TV wash over him. He listened to Haibara’s soft laughter and Utahime’s muffled swearing at the screen, her voice thick with sleep as she called Captain America an idiot. A faint, herbal scent wafted from the corner of the room—rosemary, maybe? It was a good smell. He took a slow, deep breath, savoring the bitter aftertaste of the alcohol still clinging to his tongue.

Utahime’s apartment turned out to be somewhat similar to Satoru’s—though noticeably smaller in certain aspects. The balcony, in particular, was more compact and lacked the upper floor extension that Satoru’s place had. Still, the layout felt familiar in a way Sukuna couldn’t quite explain.

The moment he stepped inside, the living room and balcony came fully into view, stretching out directly from the entrance. To the side of the living room was a room that was most likely Utahime’s bedroom. On the right side of the hallway, just past the door, was the kitchen and dining area—clearly more frequently used than Satoru’s immaculate kitchen ever was. Utahime’s living room felt warmer, cozier.

A brown carpet covered the floor, while the sofas and cushions came in deep shades of red and green, creating a comfortable, lived-in atmosphere. Decorative plants occupied nearly every corner—on tables, shelves, and even out on the balcony—adding a sense of calm and care to the space.

A large television sat across from the couch, currently playing some kind of Avengers movie or something along those lines. Sukuna didn’t really understand it. The sound echoed through the quiet night, loud enough that he was certain the apartment had proper soundproofing. Otherwise, someone would have complained by now.

A large, L-shaped off-white sofa stretched along the wall facing the television. In front of it sat a low table, cluttered with snacks and beer cans.

At some point, Sukuna rested his head against the edge of the table, folding his legs beneath it. Warmth wrapped around him, settling deep into his bones. He wasn’t sure whether it was the alcohol finally taking full effect or the blanket Utahime had tossed over him earlier.

Whatever it was, he liked it. A small smile curved on his lips.

He couldn’t quite believe it. He was drinking with his friends.

Friends.

Sukuna had friends.

The realization that he actually had friends, friends he was spending a Saturday night with, drinking beer and watching random movies together felt unreal. Sukuna felt like a normal kid.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel different from everyone else.

For the first time, he felt alive.

The feeling bloomed warm in his chest, stretching into a wide grin across his face. His cheeks pulled tight, so tight it felt like his smile had reached all the way to his ears.

Without realizing it, a soft, breathy giggle slipped out of him.

Haibara, sprawled across the sofa, startled and looked up at him, phone still in hand as he was mid-text to Nanami. Utahime, sitting on the floor to Sukuna’s right and facing the TV, turned as well, confusion written clearly on her face.

“Did I just hear you laugh, Sukuna?” Haibara asked, eyes wide.

“Hm,” Sukuna hummed in response, barely nodding, but the smile refused to leave his face. A quiet chuckle bubbled up again. It felt like he had stretched his lips too far, like the muscles in his cheeks didn’t quite remember how to move this way. They tingled strangely, unfamiliar and warm, as if they were melting awake after being frozen for far too long. His cheeks had been frozen all this time. For some reason, that thought alone made everything even funnier.

Another laugh escaped him, louder this time. Sukuna didn’t know what was funny anymore. He just knew he wanted to laugh. His chest shook, his shoulders trembled, and his whole body vibrated with it. It felt as if every pore in his skin gets more oxygen than usual. It's bright and light and warm and overflowing, filling him in a way he had never experienced before. It made him feel bubbly and giddy.

“Good God,” Haibara burst out, eyes shining with excitement. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you smile that wide. And what is this? You’re actually laughing? What’s so funny that it made you laugh, Sukuna-kun? Huh? Tell me!”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Haibara slid down from his spot on the sofa and plopped himself onto the floor, squeezing into the space between Utahime and Sukuna with zero hesitation, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

“Mm… muscles,” Sukuna mumbled, still giggling under his breath. His voice was lazy, words slurring just a little. “My cheek muscles…” Another soft, pointless chuckle escaped him, like even he didn’t fully understand why he was laughing anymore.

Utahime blinked, staring at him for a second longer, then snorted quietly. “You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, though there was no bite to it.

Haibara, however, just smiled wider. “I don’t really get it,” he said lightly, “but I’m glad it makes you laugh.”

He reached out without thinking, resting his hand on Sukuna’s head. Sukuna didn’t pull away and let Haibara gently run his fingers through his hair, ruffling it a little, messy and affectionate.

Sukuna let out a small sound at that, something between a hum and a breathy laugh. He felt warm all over, loose and heavy in the best way. The table was cool against his skin, the room softly lit, the movie’s noise fading into the background. For once, no one was demanding anything from him. 

They didn’t know Sukuna had a soft, almost adorable side like this. Utahime, sitting beside him, watched the scene with a warmth blooming quietly in her chest. She had only known Sukuna for about two months? maybe even just a month and a few weeks if she didn’t count those awkward, distant interactions at the very beginning. 

To Utahime, Sukuna looked like her younger self.

Not the Utahime who had Shoko by her side, but the Utahime from before that—the quiet one, quick-tempered, guarded, someone who carried everything alone and never let it spill. Watching Sukuna laugh so freely made something in her chest loosen, a relief she hadn’t realized she was holding onto, like the feeling of a mother seeing her child take their first steps.

Maybe it was an exaggeration to say it like that, Utahime didn't know why she felt protective of him. They were friends who had only known each other for a matter of weeks—by any normal standard, that would sound strange. And yet, Utahime couldn’t explain it any other way. Maybe it was because she saw too much of her old self in Sukuna. Or maybe it was simply because the world had been unfair to him, and she could feel that injustice deep in her bones.

Ever since she learned about Sukuna’s strained relationship with Yuuji, and the way some people reacted to him because of it, Utahime had felt that the world wasn’t fair.

How easy it was for people to judge someone without ever trying to see things from their perspective. Utahime had always believed there were at least two sides to every story but most people only listened to the one that was loudest, or most convenient.

Or perhaps that belief came from her own past. She had once been the ignored side of the story too—judged solely by her distant demeanor and antisocial tendencies, never given the chance to explain herself. Because of that, she’d grown sensitive to situations like this, to people being misunderstood and quietly cast aside.

And once they stopped being like those people who only listen to one side of the story. They will realize how much they have been missing.

Sukuna was a good kid. He was smart, talented, and never went out of his way to bother anyone. He was simply absorbed in his own world—a world no one had ever truly tried to understand.

Despite his constant scowl and the way he always looked like he was on the verge of snapping, Utahime knew Sukuna had a soft and forgiving heart. More than once, when someone tried to pick a fight with him or stir up trouble, he let it go far too easily. He forgave them easily, as if he was used to it, as if he believed he deserved it because of the bad image people had of him. As if he thought that image alone had already decided the kind of fate he was meant to live with. And the worst part was he’s okay with it. It was as if Sukuna thought he wasn’t even worth the effort of a real connection—as if he were so broken that a kindness was not something he deserved.

And Utahime hated that. She hated how Sukuna believed he wasn’t better, or greater, or more deserving than anyone else. How he accepted being treated lightly, looked down on, as if that was all he was worth.

Working closely with him had allowed Utahime to see far more than most people ever bothered to. Sukuna was hardworking and persistent. He always took the time to patiently explain things to anyone who asked about booths, plans, even his arts, never showing annoyance, even when the questions were basic. 

He was curious, always eager to learn about things he didn’t understand. When it came to his paintings, he treated them with almost reverent care—redoing them again and again if they didn’t meet his own standards, even when Utahime thought they were already flawless.

He was kind and polite in a way that sharply contradicted the intimidating impression given by his face and body language. Sometimes, he could even be sweet. He would grow shy when someone praised him, cheeks faintly coloring, eyes darting away as if he didn’t know what to do with the words. As if compliments were something unfamiliar, something he had never quite learned how to receive.

Yet out of everything Utahime had observed about Sukuna, there was one thing she had never seen before tonight.

She had never seen him laugh like this.

Laughing openly, smiling so wide that his small fang-like canines showed, reminding her of a kitten video she had watched on her phone just last week. 

After a while, Sukuna’s giggling finally began to fade. Utahime lowered the volume of the television and shifted closer to him. Now the three of them sat in a small circle at the edge of the table, shoulders brushing, bodies pressed close without any awkwardness, surrounded by the sofa and bathed in the flickering glow of the TV, which still showed the Avengers clashing violently with Thanos.

“Sukuna, c’mere.” Utahime said softly. She reached out, cupping his head as he lay against the table, gently coaxing him upright. Sukuna followed her lead without resistance.

“Hm?” he hummed vaguely, reaching for another can of beer out of habit.

Utahime caught his hand mid-motion and wrapped her fingers around it, stopping him. Sukuna’s gaze dropped to where their hands were clasped together. The warmth surprised him. It was gentle, grounding. It reminded him of his mother’s hand.

“Sukuna, listen to me,” Utahime said softly, her voice so quiet that Sukuna almost missed it entirely. “There’s something important I want to tell you. Are you sober enough to actually understand what I’m saying?”

“I’m not drunk, Uta…” Sukuna giggled again, as if the concern in her voice was the funniest thing he had heard all night.

Utahime, on the other hand, only smiled faintly when she heard him call her Uta. The sound of it made something warm settle in her chest. She then glanced toward Haibara, giving him a look that clearly carried meaning without words. Haibara immediately seemed to understand. He nodded and without a word, he leaned over the table and picked up Utahime’s phone from beside him.

Utahime took the phone back from him and unlocked it, her fingers moving with purpose as she opened her message inbox. Then she turned the screen toward Sukuna.

Sukuna squinted, blinking slowly. His vision swam just enough that he had to focus harder than usual, his brows knitting together as he tried to make sense of what Utahime was showing him. At first, it looked like an ordinary group chat, nothing unusual, nothing alarming.

Until he read the name at the top of the screen.

“Project Sukuna.”

“Oh?” Sukuna still didn’t fully understand what all of this meant. He didn’t know whether to blame the alcohol or his dyslexia, but as he stared at the screen, the letters seemed to sway and dance, refusing to stay still. He squinted hard, forcing himself to focus.

Sukuna blinked, once… twice. Then he scrolled.

He saw how Yuuji had changed the name after that and how Satoru had immediately changed it again. Then Yuuji. Then Satoru. Back and forth, again and again, until, in the end, the group name stubbornly remained the same.

His throat tightened.

He read fragments of the conversation—messages sent long before tonight. Lines about him. About how distant and rude he seemed. About how hard it was for Yuuji to get close to him. About them wanting to help Yuuji bridge the gap, to make things less painful, less tense to him.

They care about Yuuji a lot. That’s good.

Before he could read any further, Utahime gently but firmly took the phone back from his hands.

“What I want to say is,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry for letting this happen. Haibara and I both felt awful keeping this from you these past few weeks.” She hesitated, then continued, her voice steady but sincere. “That’s why we wanted to tell you the truth tonight. So please… forgive us, Sukuna. I swear, Haibara too—we never had any bad intentions toward you. Not even once.”

Haibara nodded immediately, almost too quickly. “Yeah. Never. Not even a little.”

Sukuna just stared at them.

His mind felt slow, heavy, like it was sinking through thick water. Their words didn’t make sense, he didn’t understand them, he couldn’t understand why.

Why were they apologizing?

“…Why would I?” The question slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

The moment the words landed, he realized how wrong they sounded. Utahime and Haibara both stiffened, their faces paling slightly.

Sukuna winced and immediately lifted a hand to his mouth, tapping his palm against it. “No—no, that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I said it wrong. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to slow down, to choose his words more carefully. “I mean… What is there for me to forgive? This isn’t your fault. None of it is.”

He looked between them, genuinely confused.

“Sukuna, no. That’s not right,” Haibara said, his voice soft but anchored by a sudden firmness. He shook his head slowly. “It’s wrong. We were wrong to do that to you. Judge you and talk behind your back like that” He drew in a slow breath. “Especially me. I was the one who suggested getting closer to you first. I didn’t have bad intentions, I swear. I genuinely wanted to know you and—and Nanami is important to me, so I thought helping his friend was the right thing to do.” His voice wavered. “But I’m not proud of going behind your back like that, even if I thought it was harmless. I’m so sorry. I really am.”

Haibara spoke up again, his tone steady, though his face wore a heavy, somber expression that looked entirely foreign on him. “Nanami told me not to interfere too much,” he admitted with a rueful little smile. “I guess I was just too stubborn.” He looked straight at Sukuna, his gaze unwavering. “And I don’t regret meeting you. I don’t regret becoming your friend.”

Sukuna offered a weak, clumsy shrug, his movements slowed by the haze of the alcohol. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I kind of deserve it.” He let out a ghost of a laugh. “Besides, if we’re blaming people, it should be Satoru. He’s the one who started all this, right? Changing the group name and everything? You guys didn’t do anything wrong. You guys just wanted to help Yuuji.”

“But still—” Utahime began, but Sukuna cut her off with a shake of his head.

“No. Really. Just forget it. I’m not angry.” His voice softened, losing its usual edge. “This kind of thing happened. It’s fine. And... I wasn’t exactly a saint to Yuuji when we first met after seven years apart. I wasn't nice to either of you or any of Yuuji’s friends, either. So it’s fine. Really. No need to apologize.”

He truly couldn’t fathom why they were treating this like such a grave matter. If anything, he felt a strange, flickering warmth in his chest because this means that they actually cared enough to tell him the truth because most people don't even bother telling him anything. Let alone apologizing for something like this.

Sukuna felt grateful for Utahime and Haibara. They had been nothing but kind to him. They took him out for ice cream, drank beer together, and watched movies together. Spending time like normal young people did. Ordinary, simple moments that Sukuna had never really allowed himself to have before.

He didn’t want this friendship to end over something like this. To Sukuna, it didn’t feel that serious. Well, too many people had done far worse things behind his back for something like this to register as a real betrayal. And he thought he kind of deserved it. He knew that what he had done to Yuuji had been cruel. Deep down, he also knew that Yuuji probably didn’t even understand half of what had happened to Sukuna back then. And Sukuna was certain that if their positions had been reversed, Yuuji would never have done to him what he had done to Yuuji.

So yes, he believed he deserved this kind of treatment from Yuuji’s friends. Especially from Satoru. Sukuna hadn’t even been able to act decently toward Satoru. Of course Gojo Satoru would do something like this. That much made sense.

What Sukuna couldn’t understand was why knowing it was Satoru who did this made his chest hurt so badly.

He’d been treated like this before. Mocked behind his back. Smiled at to his face, only to be ridiculed when he wasn’t around—especially when Yuuji was nearby. That kind of hypocrisy was familiar to him. He should have been used to it by now. So why did the fact that it was Gojo Satoru this time hurt so much more?

It felt as though Sukuna had only just begun stitching his heart back together, carefully, only for Satoru to tear it open again in one careless motion. As if all of Sukuna’s effort, all the quiet rebuilding he’d been doing, had been rendered completely meaningless.

Usually, Sukuna could stay detached. Usually, he didn’t care. He would simply distance himself, find other people, or retreat into his own world rather than accept a fake connection. And honestly, if it had been someone else—Megumi, Nobara, or Maki—he might not have cared at all. He might have even been relieved, happy to be kept away from people who didn’t like him in the first place.

That just was how it always went.

Yuuji’s friends never liked him. For reasons Sukuna never fully understood.

But this was Gojo Satoru, that man had helped him so much even though he was a bit of a jerk, he was probably the only one who knew what Sukuna had been through, his past and everything, someone who might have even experienced something similar himself.

Sukuna had thought that their relationship was improving, especially after his nightmare two weeks ago. From the things Satoru had said back then, he had sounded sincere. Or at least sincere enough it made Sukuna believe that their relationship was no longer defined by mutual hatred. They almost felt like friends now, fragile as it was, despite Sukuna’s constant tendency to pull away.

Sukuna also knew that sincerity might have been forced for Yuuji’s sake. Or for whatever it was Satoru hoped to gain from all of this.

Project Sukuna? What a sick joke.

Suddenly, everything made sense. All of Satoru’s strange behavior that had unsettled him before, the way he followed Sukuna everywhere, dug into his past, acted like he cared while at the same time throwing those odd looks alongside people who clearly despised Sukuna.

Right. Maybe to Gojo Satoru, he really was just a project. An object to be observed. Something to dissect and analyze, like a useless frog in a laboratory. Not a human being with feelings. Not someone whose heart could be hurt.

And anyway, why should Sukuna feel sad over this? He had only known this man for a few weeks.

No. Sukuna was fine. He was used to this.

He had lost count of how many times this had happened to him before. This wasn’t a big deal. It never was. He had gone through worse. And besides—didn’t he deserve it? For making Yuuji’s life harder?

Yes. This was fine.

This was okay.

So why did his chest hurt?

Why did it feel so tight, as if someone had just driven a brutal punch straight into his heart?

The next thing Sukuna knew, his cheeks felt hot, and tears were pooling at the edges of his eyes. He didn’t want to cry. He really, truly didn’t want to cry. But his tears refused to listen to Sukuna’s silent screams telling them to stop—telling them that he was fine. That he would be fine.

His life was better now. It really was. He had friends. He had Yuuji by his side again. He had plans to fight back against Kenjaku and his grandmother. He was doing art, the one thing he had always loved and wanted. He could keep a cat too. He could live like a normal kid his age for the first time in his life. He had even laughed earlier, laughed so hard his cheek muscles felt strange and unused.

So why did he want to cry now?

He quickly grabbed the can of beer he’d meant to drink earlier, letting the cold melt into his hands. He tried to open it.

Haibara and Utahime stayed silent, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to react to Sukuna’s soon to be mental breakdown.

The only sounds left in the room were the television and Sukuna’s shuddering breath as he fumbled with the can of beer he was trying to open. His hands shook, fingers slipping uselessly against the tab. No matter how many times he tried to hook it, pull it, pry it open, the can refused to cooperate. His fingers felt clumsy, heavy, as if they had forgotten how to work. Just like everything else in his life.

Why did nothing ever go the way he wanted it to? 

How the hell was he supposed to make this man like him if he hated his guts this much? The very man who made a joke of him with his friends, damn it.

And then the tears finally spilled over. They streamed down his cheeks that already flushed red from the alcohol. Sukuna wiped at them with the heel of his palm, again and again, until his skin burned and the redness deepened from the rough fabric of his hoodie, sleeve rubbing against it.

“Why is this so hard to open?” he cried, his voice breaking as he tugged at the tab with growing desperation. “I just want to drink! I’m thirsty! Why won’t it open? It’s so hard! Why is it so hard? Why?”

His frustration burst out of him all at once, raw and childish. It wasn’t just the can anymore. It was everything. The stubborn metal, his shaking hands, the plans, his mom, the Gojo fucking Satoru, the files he had to the tears he couldn’t stop, the ache in his chest, all his fucking life—all of it tangled together as Sukuna cried harder, pulling at the tab like his life depended on it, as if opening that stupid can was the only thing left he still needed to prove he could do.

Utahime reacted immediately. She gently took the can from Sukuna’s trembling hands and set it down on the table before pulling him into a tight embrace.

Sukuna’s body seemed to melt against her. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was because his body had been craving warmth for far too long.

He kept crying, repeating over and over how annoyed he was that the can was so hard to open, that he was thirsty. He sobbed as if it were the most frustrating thing he had ever experienced in his life, hiccupping between words. Utahime held him without letting go, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back, grounding him.

Haibara couldn’t stand it anymore. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around Sukuna as well. Tears slipped down his own cheeks, as if he could feel the pain Sukuna was carrying. He knew that Sukuna deserved every good thing this world had to offer. And he was certain Sukuna wanted those things too.

The fact that Haibara had gone along with something that could hurt Sukuna for the sake of his friends and their relationships, made his chest tighten until he felt sick. Disgusted with himself.

He had never imagined that the day would come when he would be standing on the same side as people who hurt someone else.

Ever since he was a child, Haibara had wanted to be a superhero—someone who helped everyone, who brought light and happiness wherever he went. And now look at him. He had helped make his friend cry like this, sobbing in their arms. Haibara silently swore he would do anything to make it right.

Sukuna was his friend now.

After a while, Sukuna’s crying finally subsided. All that remained were small, shaky hiccups and the soft sound of him sniffing, his nose red and runny. He stayed there, sandwiched between Utahime and Haibara.

Sukuna tried to pull away, awkwardly breaking the embrace. Utahime and Haibara finally loosened their arms and let him go. But the moment Sukuna lifted his head and looked at them, he froze. Because they were crying too.

Why?

Haibara’s eyes were red, glassy, with tear marks still clinging to his cheeks. Utahime wasn’t any different—her lashes were wet, her expression soft and shaken. Seeing them like that made Sukuna’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t quite understand.

“…Can you help me open the beer?” Sukuna whined softly, “Please?” his voice small and childish.

The sudden shift made both Utahime and Haibara burst out laughing, almost at the same time.

Haibara quickly grabbed the can and popped it open before handing it back. Sukuna accepted it with a bright, satisfied smile and drank it in one go. He let out a long ahh afterward, clearly pleased, then wiped his lips with the back of his right hand.

When he placed the empty can on the table, Sukuna lifted his gaze and stared at Utahime and Haibara seriously. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry again. Sukuna had never done this before.

A mental breakdown, right in front of other people.

It was all new to him. Usually, moments like that happened alone in his room. Just him, his unfinished paintings, and Yoru curled up somewhere nearby. And now here he was, with friends. Drinking together. Laughing together. Crying together.

Sukuna didn’t know what he was supposed to do next.

Should he just go home and pretend nothing had happened? Act like everything he’d just felt was nothing more than an alcohol-induced illusion? Or should he apologize first for crying and making things awkward?

He sat there, stiff and unsure, surrounded by warmth he still didn’t quite know how to hold. And before Sukuna could force out an apology, Haibara broke the silence first.

“So,” he said carefully, trying to sound casual even though his eyes were still red, “you still want to be friends with us, right? You’ll… accept our apology?”

“Of course!” Sukuna answered without thinking, his voice coming out far too loud—almost like he was shouting. The moment he realized how sharp and sudden it sounded, he slapped a hand over his mouth in panic. That made Utahime and Haibara immediately burst into laughter.

And then Sukuna laughed too.

It wasn’t the breathless, uncontrollable giggling from earlier. This one was softer, steadier, but just as real. After laughing, crying, and laughing again, Sukuna could feel his body finally loosening up. It was like every muscle, every joint, every tightly wound nerve inside him had finally unclenched.

His limbs felt heavy in a good way, pleasantly warm, as if his whole body was ready to sink into a clean, warm, familiar bed and disappear into sleep. The kind of exhaustion that came not from pain, but from finally letting go.

For the first time that night—maybe for the first time in his life—Sukuna didn’t feel like he had to be on guard. He just felt… right.

Time passed quietly, almost without them noticing. Nearly all the beer bottles on the table were empty now—more than sixteen cans lay scattered on the floor, some on their sides, some rolling slightly whenever someone shifted their weight. Sukuna sat wedged between Haibara and Utahime, his hoodie long abandoned because the heat in his body had become unbearable. Now he was only wearing an oversized white T-shirt, hanging loosely on his frame.

The sensation of skin-to-skin contact, their arms and shoulders pressed close on either side of him, felt cool and strangely refreshing. To Sukuna, it was unfamiliar. He was never this exposed. He almost never wore just a T-shirt outside his own room—especially not one with short sleeves. It always felt too much like being naked.

The tattoos were the real reason. Hoodies had always been his armor. Even indoors, even when it was warm, he wore them because they hid something from the eyes of others. They softened the stares, blurred the outlines, made him feel protected. Without it now, with his arms bare and visible, Sukuna felt oddly self-conscious, unsure of where to put himself, how to sit, how to exist without that familiar layer between him and the world.

Still, neither Utahime nor Haibara seemed to care.

The three of them sat pressed together, leaning into one another for balance. Sitting upright had long since become difficult. Their bodies naturally slumped, shoulders touching, heads occasionally bumping as they shifted.

The TV had been playing a new movie for over an hour now—something Haibara had insisted on watching. Sukuna couldn’t quite remember the title anymore. Was it Koe no Katachi?

He vaguely remembered Haibara explaining the plot earlier, unable to stop himself from spoiling it after reading too many online reviews. It was about a boy who bullied his classmate. A girl who was deaf. 

Haibara was almost crying beside him now, sniffing quietly and wiping at his eyes every few minutes. Utahime, on the other hand, kept muttering in frustration under her breath, clearly furious at Shoya’s choices, her brows drawn tight whenever he appeared on screen.

Sukuna’s vision had been gently swaying for the past hour, the images on the TV blurring at the edges. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was the alcohol or the exhaustion finally catching up to him. Probably both. He didn’t fully understand what was happening in the movie anymore.

But he didn’t want to sleep.

He didn’t want this moment to end.

So he forced his eyes to stay open, blinking slowly, focusing on the glow of the screen and the warmth spreading through his body from the alcohol, from the closeness, from the quiet comfort of simply being here.

So he just sat there, enjoying the low hum of the television filled Utahime’s apartment, the muted colors of the movie playing across the screen. Shouya was on screen, looking troubled. 

Utahime leaned her head back against the sofa, blinking slowly as a loose strand of hair slid into her face. She didn’t bother fixing it.

“Honesh—honestly, though,” she slurred, lifting her half-empty can and gesturing vaguely at the TV, beer sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “You guysh… I think he likes her. Like—likes likes her. This is not just bully-then-friend stuff, right? It’s more than that. Way more.”

Haibara sniffed loudly beside Sukuna, dramatically wiping his eyes even though the scene on screen wasn’t even that sad yet. “Y-yeah…” he hiccupped. “It’sh so obvious. Soooo obvious. Shouya’s totally in love with her. Just—just look at him.” He waved weakly toward the TV, his arm wobbling mid-air. “Look at how he looks at her, man…”

He sniffed again, voice dropping into something overly serious. “It’sh about… um. Being seen. By the one person you thought hated you. Like… they don’t even want forgiveness, they just—just wanna be understood, y’know? They just want the other person to get them. Really really get them.”

Haibara suddenly turned his head toward Sukuna, eyes wide and glassy, far too intense for how drunk he was. “Right? Sukuna? That’sh love, isn’t it?”

Sukuna scoffed, but it lacked his usual edge. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, but mostly it had just dulled his defenses. He took a long swig from his can, the bitter taste from its last drop grounding him slightly. “Understanding isn’t love, Haibara,” he muttered. “It’s just… understanding. That’s it.” He shrugged lazily. “And they make it look too easy. Love’s not that easy. Especially not between a bully and his victim.”

Utahime pushed herself up on one elbow, squinting at him like her brain was buffering. “Sh’kuna… wait.” She blinked. “What d’you mean love doesn’t come easy? And—hold on.” She pointed at him, finger wobbling. “Who said that to you? Does that mean… you’ve never been in love?”

He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. Images of people in his life, of the faint, unwelcome warmth he sometimes felt around them, flashed through his mind. "I don’t think so," he grunted, trying to sound dismissive. But even to his own ears, the words felt hollow. The beer had made him sentimental, which he immediately regretted.

Haibara giggled, leaning over and poking Sukuna’s arm far too enthusiastically. “Liaaaar!” he laughed. “What about a crush? Or—or—mmm—those butterfly thingies?” He waved both hands around uselessly. “That stomach feeling like it’s gonna explode?”

"Nope," Sukuna retorted, but the fire wasn't quite there. He found himself thinking, unexpectedly, of Gojo Satoru–of his infuriating smirk, his impossible presence, and the way he sometimes looked at him with something he refused to name. The thought made his stomach clench, definitely not butterflies. More like a swarm of angry hornets.

And just like that, their conversation about love fizzled out. Nobara and Utahime turned their attention back to the TV, leaving Sukuna to battle his own thoughts. He tried desperately to stop picturing Satoru’s stupid smile and his pretty blue eyes—eyes that were a haunting shade of blue, like a vast ocean reflected under an endless sky.

Later when credits for Koe no Katachi hadn't even started yet, the room was already a graveyard of empty beer cans and crumpled snack bags. On the screen, the quiet, emotional climax was playing out, but on the floor in front of the TV, the vibe was much more... incoherent.

"I’m jus’ saying," Utahime slurred, pointing a shaky finger at the screen where Shouya and Shouko were standing. "If someone—if someone bullied me for years and then tried to be my boyfriend? I’d kick them. Right in the shins. No second chances. None."

Haibara, who was currently lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling, let out a long, mournful groan. "But it’s about growth, 'Himeee. People change.” He sighed deeply. “Love is like... it's like a bridge, you know? You build it over the garbage parts of your life."

"That’s a shitty metaphor," Sukuna muttered, slumped against the sofa, the room tilting slightly every time he blinked.

"It's a great metaphor!" Haibara protested, sitting up too fast and swaying. "S’kuna, you’re just bitter ‘cause you don’t have a bridge!”

Sukuna let out a dry, breathy laugh. 

The movie was reaching its emotional peak—lots of crying and sign language on screen—but the three of them were far past the point of following the plot. Utahime was clutching a cushion like a life raft, and Haibara was using his empty beer can as a makeshift telescope.

Sukuna stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He watched the main character, Shoya, desperately trying to earn forgiveness, trying to reach out to someone he used to hurt.

It reminded him of someone all over again.

Sukuna was at a loss tonight, he didn't understand why, ever since his talk with Atsuya, he hadn't been able to get Satoru out of his head. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and now, no matter how hard he tried, every thought led back to the man with the sapphire eyes.

“You don’t see the way that Gojo kid looks at you?”

“His eyes light up when he sees you."

“That man likes you. A lot.”

Sukuna’s head felt like it was floating three inches above his neck. He stared at his empty beer can, squinting as if he could read his future in the aluminum.

-----------------------

Sukuna, when drunk, was a very different kind of Sukuna.

He talked too much. He laughed too loudly. And when the laughter ran out, he cried just as easily. Maybe he had been wrong all along, and Uraume had been right.

Maybe Sukuna simply should not drink. Because alcohol stripped him bare in ways he didn’t know how to explain, and he already dreaded the version of himself that would wake up sober tomorrow and have to process the fact that he had—without meaning to—started unraveling his life in front of his new friends.

Friends.

The word still felt unfamiliar on his tongue.

Sukuna had never, not once in his life, told anyone about the things he carried. Not the past, not the fear, not the anger, not the quiet exhaustion that lived permanently in his chest. He had always handled things the same way. Alone, silently thinking himself in circles until he found a way out or until he convinced himself there wasn’t one. Depending on the day.

But tonight, he decided he would blame everything on the alcohol. On the cans he had knowingly bought, knowingly opened, knowingly drained over the past three hours. Alcohol was an easy scapegoat. Alcohol made things slip. Alcohol made him say things he never allowed himself to think out loud.

"Hey..." Sukuna started, his voice thick and gravelly. He had to stop and swallow because his tongue felt like a piece of dry carpet. "I... got this friend. Back home. S’a mess. Real mess."

Utahime let out a giggle that sounded like a tea kettle whistling, her head lulling onto Sukuna’s shoulder. And she exchanged a look over Sukuna’s head with Haibara. A friend. Right. Because Sukuna’s social circle was notoriously a party of one.

"A friend, huh?" Utahime smirked, leaning back. "Go on. What’s his 'mess'?"

"Hmm... so... I have to—I mean, my friend has to," Sukuna corrected himself with a clumsy wave of his hand. "He has to make this guy fall for him. Like, head-over-heels, totally... y’know, obsessed. And he’s only got a month. Just one month." His fingers drummed a frantic, uneven rhythm on the beer can. He gestured vaguely at the TV, nearly spilling his drink. "Kinda like that Shouya kid. Tryna do something impossible to fix a... a real shitty situation."

Sukuna leaned back, his eyelids heavy as he blinked slowly. “But my friend—hah—he’s not, uh… romantic. At all. Zero romance stats. Doesn’t know how to start, doesn’t know what to say... doesn’t even know what falling in love is supposed to look like.” He frowned at the can again, as if waiting for it to provide an answer.

Haibara giggled, tucking his legs under him. "A month? That's a total speedrun! Hic!"

"Well, what do you guys think? I know you both are... 'xperts in this," Sukuna muttered, his eyes wandering around the room. "You and Nanami. And Utahime with Shoko. You guys... they’d basically do anything for you. They’re wrapped around your fingers. How'd you even do that? What was the... the strat’gy?"

Utahime let out a soft, slightly too-long laugh, the sound a little wobbly at the end. “Strate—gy?” she repeated, the word tripping over itself. “Sukuna, c’mon… just—just look at the movie.” She pointed at the TV, missed, then pointed again. “Shouya didn’t get Shouko t’trust him ‘cause of some big plan or strategy or whatever.” She shook her head, hair swaying. “He just—stopped being a coward. Yeah. He showed her the bad parts. The weak ones. The stuff you don’t wanna show.”

She blinked when Sukuna just stared at her, then nudged his shoulder, a little too hard. “Aand—okay, wait. For me and Shoko, it wasn’t even like that.” She frowned, trying to focus. “We met in high school, right? But we didn’t talk. Like. At all.” A quiet laugh slipped out of her. “And you guys know me, my personality’s kinda… difficult."

Utahime smiled to herself, slow and hazy. “But whenever Shoko showed up and started talkin’, everything just felt… normal? Easy. Like it—mm—flowed.” She made a vague wave with her hand. “And then one day we were just… oh. We like each other.”

She paused, eyes glassy. “And it’s not just Shoko, y’know. I too would do anything for her.” Her voice softened. “That’s what love does. You don’t plan it. It just… happens.”

“And—and with Nanamin!” Haibara cut in, words tumbling over each other as he sat up too fast. “I didn’t do anything cool either!” He laughed, a little too loud, hugging a pillow. “I just—kept showin’ up, I think? I gave him bread. I smiled at him every mornin’. I talked a looot.” He giggled, cheeks flushed. “So maybe it’s about bein’… persistent? An’ a little annoyin’. Yeah.”

Sukuna frowned, his thoughts clearly lagging behind his mouth. “So… that’s it?” he muttered slowly. “My ‘friend’ is s’posed to seduce a guy who’s basically a god… by just—what—being annoying?” He scoffed, but it came out weak. “And letting it flow’s not gonna work, guys.”

“Sukuna,” Utahime said, leaning closer, her voice dropping into that drunk-but-dangerously-honest tone. She poked his chest, missed, then tried again. “Tell your… ‘friend’ somethin’ for me.” She squinted at him. “He doesn’t need to do anything. Like—anything at all. He just needs to be real. Just… be himself.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “I know your friend’s smart. Talented. And if he’d stop scowlin’ for five seconds, he’s actually really pretty.” She smiled lazily. “Especially when he laughs. With those cute little fangs.”

Haibara nodded way too hard. “Yeah! Exactly!” he said, squeezing the pillow. “Tell your ‘friend’ he’s a ten outta ten. Hot. Smart. A sweetheart who watches movies with friends on a Saturday night.” He grinned. “Whoever this guy is… he’s doomed. One smile and—boom. Gone.”

“You think so…?” Sukuna asked, his voice low, dragging just a little.

“I know so,” Haibara said, way too seriously, dropping a hand on Sukuna’s shoulder and almost missing it. “Tell your friend he’s the smartest, coolest guy in his freshman class.” He squinted, thinking hard. “If this guy doesn’t fall for him, then he’s probably… legally blind. Or stupid.” Haibara frowned deeply. “Wait. Is he stupid?” The concern was so sudden it was ridiculous.

Sukuna pictured Satoru’s constant, infuriating grin, the sharp eyes, the stupidly brilliant mind. He snorted. “He’s definitely not stupid. Just… annoyin’.”

“Even better,” Utahime yawned, stretching her arms until she nearly tipped over. “Annoying people loooove a challenge.” She blinked slowly at him. “And you Sukuna—I mean—your friend.” She waved a hand, giving up on correcting herself. “He is the ultimate challenge.”

She leaned closer, poking his chest lazily. “Just show the guy the real you. Well—real him.” A sloppy grin. “Just be, like… a little less of a prick for once, yeah? Do that, and he’ll have him wrapped ‘round his finger before the next semester even starts.”

Sukuna felt his face heat up, alcohol and embarrassment tangling together. “Fine. I’ll do that… I’ll tell him.” He paused, frowning. “My friend. I mean.” He cleared his throat. “He’s kind of difficult sometimes, but—yeah. I think… I think he can do that.”

“You better,” Utahime murmured, already half-asleep as she patted his head. “Tell him we like him anyway. Difficult or not.” Her voice softened, she smiled and continued. “And ‘m sure the other guy will too.”

The movie credits blurred into white lines against a black screen, but no one reached for the remote. The room smelled like stale lager and lime-flavored chips. Haibara was sprawled out on the rug, legs dangling off the coffee table, while Sukuna had leaned so far into Utahime’s side he was basically sitting in her lap.

Sukuna tipped his head back a little, a slow, crooked grin spreading across his face. For the first time all night, he wasn’t thinking about everything piling up in his head. He just felt warm and giddy. It’s bubbling up in his throat. He tried to fight the lopsided smile tugging at his lips and closed his eyes.

Then, “Hey… think I have an idea,” Utahime muttered, the words melting together as her voice trailed off sleepily.

“Hm?” Sukuna shifted, straightening up. Haibara stirred too.

“I think…” Utahime mumbled, eyes still closed. “I will make the bridge.”

“What…?” Sukuna squinted as Utahime pushed herself up and grabbed her phone.

“What bridge?” Haibara sat up too, swaying as he plopped himself down beside Utahime, clearly curious about whatever she was planning.

Utahime leaned over the table, rummaging through the pile of empty wrappers and half-finished snacks like she was searching for buried treasure. “Where’s your phone, Sukuna?”

“Hm?” Sukuna frowned, trying to think. “I dunno.” He tried to remember where he’d put it before the movie and the drinks completely took over, but his brain refused to cooperate. With a small groan, he stood up too, joining the search despite being utterly useless.

“Here.” Haibara suddenly held up Sukuna’s phone, pulling it from the gap between the sofa cushions. Utahime immediately snatched the phone from Haibara’s hand. Now she had two phones—hers and Sukuna’s—one in each hand.

Sukuna and Haibara dropped back down on either side of her. Sukuna let his head tip onto Utahime’s shoulder, his eyelids heavy. He was right on the edge of falling asleep, but curiosity stubbornly kept him awake. He really wanted to know what she was doing.

His vision was a little blurry, but he could see Utahime unlock her own phone and started typing something there. Sukuna had no idea what she was doing. His thoughts were far too slow but the next thing he heard was Haibara’s barely contained giggling and the satisfied huff of breath Utahime let out.

After that, he saw Utahime lift her phone a little higher, staring at the screen with a smug, deeply pleased look on her face.

Then she handed the phone back to him, a proud smile still plastered across her pretty face. “Here. I just built the bridge for you. Now do whatever you want with it.”

Sukuna took his phone, squinting at the screen as he tried to figure out what kind of bridge Utahime was talking about.

And he saw it. 

Utahime added You.

Sukuna’s smile slowly spread—wide and lazy—before twisting into something undeniably mischievous. He bit his lower lip, dragged his tongue over it, then started typing.

Sukuna changed the group name to “Duck Gojo Sstoru”.

Sukuna squinted, trying to make out the letters on the screen to ensure he hadn't made a typo.

Utahime: I'm done building the bridge!!

Haibara: lololololololololLLL

Nobara: Holy shit!!!

Maki: damn satoru, you’re done for. Lmaooo

Sukuna let out a soft snort, his thumbs dancing over the keypad once again. With a sudden, drunken confidence. He was trying his best to avoid any more typos, but the letters felt like they were vibrating under his touch. 

Sukuna changed the group name to “Suck Gojo Storu”.

Shoko: lol

Yuta: I rlly don’t know what to say

Panda: me too

Satoru: typing…

Sukuna’s grin only got worse.

One more time.

Sukuna changed the group name to “Fuck Gojo Satoru”.

Sukuna let out a small smile, satisfied that he’d managed to avoid any typos. 

Yuuji: Sukuna, answer your phone

Satoru: typing…

Sukuna left.

Sukuna stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, his vision swimming, the warmth in his chest buzzing loudly. He dropped his phone onto the table after successfully causing chaos in the group chat. Tomorrow morning, if he remembered even half of what he’d done tonight, he would simply blame it on the alcohol.

Utahime’s giggles came first. Then Haibara joined in. And of course, Sukuna followed. Within seconds, the three of them were laughing together like absolute idiots.

It didn’t take long before all three of their phones started buzzing nonstop, the group chat clearly exploding. Notifications piled up one after another. Then Sukuna’s phone began ringing.

He heard it. He just didn’t feel like answering.

A second later, Utahime’s phone rang too. She ignored the first call. The second. The third. On the fourth ring, she finally picked up.

Sukuna didn’t even bother asking who it was. When he turned his head slightly, he saw Haibara also answering a call, swaying as he talked to whoever was on the other end. Both of his friends were suddenly busy, speaking into their phones with drunk seriousness.

His own phone rang again. It was right there on the table in front of him. 

His eyelids felt like someone had taped weights to them. The room tilted gently to the left. He blinked slowly, vision swimming, and managed to see who's been calling him non stop.

Yuuji.

And Satoru.

His phone buzzed again.

With immense effort, Sukuna dragged his hand across the table, fingers clumsy and uncooperative finally grabbed the phone. It almost slipped from his grasp before he answered.

“Where are you?”

“Hmmm…”

“Sukuna, where are you?”

“Yuuji…” Sukuna’s voice came out thick and sluggish. “My head hurts… I’m sleepy…”

“Hey, hey—don’t sleep yet, okay? Tell me where you are.”

“With Utahime.”

“Yes, I know. Where?”

“her house.”

“Okay. Good. Where is her house?”

“Hmm.”

“Sukuna, please. Are you safe? Are you okay?”

“Hmm yeah…’ss warm ‘ere.”

Yuuji exhaled shakily. “Okay. Good. Can I talk to Utahime?”

“Can’t.” Sukuna tried to explain that Utahime was also still on the phone, that's why Yuuji can’t talk to her now, but the words wouldn’t form properly. His tongue felt too heavy. His jaw didn’t want to move. Everything required too much effort and he just wanted to sleep.

“O-okay. Okay. Stay there. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t go home alone. Do you hear me, Sukuna? Don’t leave.”

Yuuji’s voice sounded panicked, fast, too loud in his ear and it made Sukuna’s head throb harder.

“Hmm…”

“I’m going to call Utahime or Shoko. Then we’ll talk again, okay?”

Sukuna didn’t answer this time. His eyes were barely open now. The world had dissolved into blurs of light and shadow. His phone slowly slipped from his fingers and landed softly against his thigh before sliding to the floor.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to say that he’s okay. But his lips wouldn’t move the way he wanted them to. They felt numb. His thoughts drifted apart like scattered papers in the wind.

“Sukuna?”

Yuuji heard nothing but faint breathing on the other end of the line. And under his breath, Yuuji cursed.

Sukuna slowly slid down until his body was pressed against the base of the sofa, curling slightly on his side. He leaned into it, as if trying to melt into whatever warmth the fabric could offer, searching for the most comfortable position to sleep. His phone lay abandoned near his hand, the call long forgotten.

He can hear Utahime was still talking on the phone, her voice drifting in and out of his awareness. Through the haze in his head, Sukuna faintly recognized another voice on the other end. It sounds like Satoru. Why would Satoru call Utahime? He couldn’t make out the words tho. Just the rhythm of their conversation.

Then he felt movement beside him. Haibara carefully lowered himself onto the floor nearby, his phone on one of his hands. And Sukuna felt the warmth increase instantly. So, Sukuna didn’t move away, he shifted just a little closer without thinking.

His breathing evened out, slow and heavy. The alcohol had completely taken over; his eyelids refused to lift again. The buzzing in his head dulled into nothing but soft static.

And for the first time in a long while, Sukuna let himself drift into the dreamless sleep. His eyes closed fully, and a faint smile curved along his lips.

—------------------------

Chapter Text

-------------------------

Sukuna blinked. Slowly.

His head throbbed as if someone were repeatedly kicking it with their shin. It hurt badly. His stomach churned, sour and heavy, nausea rolling up his throat in slow, threatening waves. His cheek was pressed against the warmth of Utahime’s fluffy and warm rugs, and he didn’t even have the strength to lift his head.

He tried to process his surroundings—limited to whatever fell into his narrow line of sight. The sliding balcony door stood closed. Beyond the glass, a few potted plants swayed faintly in the night breeze, their shadows dancing across the floor. Decorative charms hanging near the doorframe shifted gently.

He frowned.

Another wave of nausea crawled up his spine. He swallowed hard, blinking once again.

He was lying sideways, his head pillowed in Utahime’s lap. Her hand was in his hair, absentmindedly combing through it. Haibara was sprawled across his legs, snoring lightly, one arm hugging his leg.

It felt warm. Safe.

The second time Sukuna blinked again.

It was cold.

His cheek was back on the table. The TV screen in front of him was dark now. No Utahime. No Haibara. Just empty cans scattered across the floor and the faint smell of stale beer.

Where were Utahime and Haibara?

His stomach twisted harder.

He blinked again.

And two familiar figures stood near the kitchen counter. Squinting his eyes harder at them, Sukuna tried to figure out who it was.

Was it Shoko?  And Nanami?

Shoko was holding a glass of water, her expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. Nanami stood beside her with crossed arms, already dressed too neatly for this hour, looking like a disappointed salaryman who had somehow walked into a daycare disaster.

He felt the room swayed again so Sukuna shut his eyes immediately.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

The nausea surged again, thick and violent. He pressed his lips together, swallowing repeatedly. He refused to throw up. Not here. Not in Utahime’s apartment. The humiliation alone would kill him faster than alcohol poisoning.

His head was spinning too much to move anyway. Even lifting it felt impossible. So he stayed still. Eyes closed. Breathing slowly.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Just wait it out.

The alcohol would fade. The room would stop tilting. The pounding behind his eyes would quiet down. He would regain control of his limbs. Then he would stand up, pretend nothing had happened, and go home.

Yes.

That was the plan.

For now, he remained exactly where he was, face half-squished against the table, stubbornly refusing to vomit, waiting for the world to stop moving.

-------------------------

Gojo Satoru was a man who treated revenge like a game. Something to be played purely for his own amusement. If someone crossed him, he didn’t get angry. He got creative. What he delivered was never random. He liked to think of it as a lesson. Or at least, that was what he liked to call it. Said it was a carefully tailored return for whatever had been done by them.

He was young, brilliant, talented, and obscenely wealthy. Influence followed his name wherever it went, smoothing out consequences before they could even form. And because of that, more often than not, he never truly regretted anything he did.

Born into a world that treated him like an untouchable deity, raised with power resting effortlessly in his hands, Satoru had long forgotten that he was not, in fact, a god. He was only human. An ordinary man who happened to enjoy the thrill of control, the satisfaction of watching events unfold exactly the way he designed and expected of them.

He knew very well that he wasn’t a wise man. Patience and humility were not virtues people associated with him. But fairness? That, he believed he possessed. He always made sure that whatever he did was fair. People received exactly what they deserved—no more, no less. At least, that was how Satoru Gojo had justified it so far.

Like when he dealt with deceitful, manipulative clients under the Gojo name. He would entertain himself first. Pull a few invisible strings, set a subtle trap, watch them struggle in the consequences of their own dishonesty. He found a certain pleasure in observing the moment realization dawned on their faces. And once he was satisfied, once the lesson had been delivered, he discarded them.

Simple as that.

It wasn’t only strangers or shady clients who received that treatment. Even the elders of the Gojo family were not exempt from Satoru’s games. That was precisely why no one dared to provoke him. Satoru knew exactly how much power he held in the palm of his hand and everyone around him knew it too. He made sure of that.

He remembered, once, when someone had tried to get close to him for their own benefit. They smiled too sweetly, lingered too long, hoping to profit from the weight of the Gojo name behind him. They thought proximity meant access. They thought charm was enough.

Satoru had found it amusing.

He made sure they learned what the influence of a Gojo truly meant. So, he played along, giving them just enough of what they wanted to keep them hopeful. Then he pulled the curtain back. He exposed every ugly intention, every hidden scheme. He dismantled them carefully, publicly, until embarrassment clung to them like a permanent stain. After that, no one tried that particular tactic again.

Or that time he became intensely protective over Yuta, so protective that it crossed the thin, invisible line between concern and obsession, and he decided to conduct a full background check on Yuta’s girlfriend without telling him. It did not stop at documents and quiet inquiries. Satoru went further. He followed her. He observed from a distance. From the outside, it would have looked unhinged, almost insane. But to Satoru, at that time, it felt justified.

He convinced himself that he was simply being thorough, that as someone who understood how ugly people could be, it was his responsibility to make sure Yuta was not being deceived. Deep down, there was also something else. A  flicker of excitement. At the time, he had found it entertaining.

He thought that if he could uncover even the smallest flaw, if he could pull out some hidden secret and lay it bare in front of Yuta, it would validate him. It would prove that his instincts were right. That he had been right to doubt.

He imagined the satisfaction of saying, See? I was protecting you.

But there was nothing. No hidden debt. No secret lover. No double life. Just an ordinary person with an ordinary past who genuinely cared about Yuta. Rika turned out to be such a sweetheart. And when Yuta found out what Satoru had done, he shut Satoru out for months.

Even so, Satoru told himself it had been amusing in its own way. He insisted to himself that there had been no real harm done. After all, what was wrong with being cautious? What was wrong with verifying that the people around you were trustworthy?

He clung to that reasoning stubbornly. Because admitting that he had crossed a line would mean admitting that sometimes, his games were not fun at all. And if Gojo Satoru were asked whether he regretted any of it, his answer would have been simple.

No. Not once. Not until now. Not until he met Ryomen Sukuna.

For the first time, Gojo Satoru regretted his own game. He felt the weight of consequences for something he had always dismissed as nothing more than entertainment.

Satoru stared at the screen of his phone, frustration carved clearly across his face. The glow reflected in his eyes, cold and accusing. Yuuji had just called him and for a terrifying moment Satoru realized how close he had come to losing his best friend tonight.

He had not slept at all.

All night he had been lying on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the sound of the apartment door opening. Waiting for Sukuna to come home safely.

Midnight had passed. Then one. Then two. The silence grew heavier with every minute, pressing against his ribs.

When the group chat notification suddenly lit up his phone, the sharp buzz cut through the quiet night. One second he was still on his back, staring blankly at the dark, the next, he shot upright without thinking. The movement was so abrupt that his vision blurred, and he nearly stumbled because his body hadn’t been prepared to move that fast after hours of laying down.

As he read the messages over and over again, he tried to type a response. He truly did. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, erasing and retyping the same useless words. He was trying to find something reasonable. Some explanation that wouldn’t sound pathetic. Some justification that would make sense.

Yes. A reasonable excuse.

Something like, I’m sorry, Sukuna. I hated you at first because of what you did to your brother who happened to be my best friend, so I acted like an asshole and decided to mess with you instead of confronting you properly. But don’t worry, I don’t think I hate you anymore. I think, maybe, I might even like you a little now.

Right. That sounded perfectly reasonable.

Satoru dragged a hand through his hair again, fingers tangling in the white strands before tugging at the roots in frustration. He had lost count of how many times he had done that in the past ten minutes. Each time felt like a weak attempt to wake himself up from his own stupidity. He didn’t know how to fix this. For once, he genuinely didn’t know what move to make next.

Because it wasn’t just Yuuji he was at risk of losing. There’s also Sukuna. After the past few weeks, after that slow, unexpected improvement between him and Sukuna, there was a real possibility he might lose Sukuna too. Things had been tense when they first met, but recently there had been something steadier. Not friendship, but something better than before. Something fragile.

And Satoru might have just shattered it.

After failing to properly express any sort of apology in the group chat, Satoru tried calling Sukuna directly. Once. Twice. Three times. The line rang and rang, then went dead.

No answer.  Nothing.

He forced himself to think instead of panic. Looking back at the conversation in the group chat, it seemed like Sukuna was with Utahime. That at least narrowed it down. But where? Was he still at work? But it was almost three in the morning, and as far as Satoru knew, the restaurant where Sukuna worked closed before that.

He walked out to the living room and sat down on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, phone still clutched tightly in his hand. He told himself he would wait. Maybe Sukuna would come home. Maybe he would walk through the door, and Satoru could explain face-to-face what he had meant in the group chat. He could apologize properly. Not through text. Not through some half-formed excuse.

All the while, he kept trying to call Sukuna, then Utahime, then Sukuna again. Neither of them answered. Instead the call he had both expected and repeatedly denied finally came.

Fuck. It was Yuuji.

Earlier, Satoru had considered calling Yuuji first. The thought had crossed his mind more than once while he was staring at his phone, but he hadn’t been able to gather enough courage to actually press the call button. The world knew Yuuji could be terrifying when he was truly angry. He wasn’t loud or violent, but firm in a way that left no room for excuses. That guy was scary as hell when he’s mad.

Satoru had been trying to prepare himself, rehearsing sentences in his head, searching for the right words that wouldn’t push his best friend further away. He needed to explain himself carefully. He needed to make sure Yuuji wouldn’t end up hating him.

So, when Yuuji’s name finally flashed across the screen, Satoru braced himself for shouting. But the shouting never came. Instead, Yuuji sounded calm. Too calm. That’s it. That calm and cold voice scared the hell out of him.

Satoru played with his own hand while he listened to him. Didn’t want to interrupt, didn’t want to poke at the already mad Yuuji. He told Satoru that Sukuna was at Utahime’s apartment, though he didn’t actually know where she lived. He had tried calling Utahime several times, but she hadn’t answered. After that, he contacted Shoko who, as usual, ended up being their savior for the night. Shoko gave him the address.

Yuuji then, in that same steady tone that Satoru swore was far more frightening than anger, told him to go pick Sukuna up. Explained that he was currently staying over at Choso’s apartment, which was roughly two hours away. It would take him far too long to reach Utahime’s place, especially when her apartment was only two blocks from Satoru.

Still in that frighteningly calm voice, Yuuji reminded Satoru of the promise he made when he first agreed to join their team. That he would help Sukuna until their plan was finished. Yuuji said he didn’t care whether Satoru did it for him, for the sake of their friendship, or simply because he was bored and wanted something to entertain himself with. What Yuuji wanted was for Satoru to stop being a coward who played with people’s feelings just for his own amusement, especially when the person he was toying with was his best friend’s brother. Basically, he told him to stop being an asshole.

Yuuji didn’t care if Satoru apologized a million times. If Sukuna didn’t forgive him, then neither would he. His voice remained flat, steady, completely stripped of emotion. As if Satoru were nothing more than a stranger. It was the kind of tone that made the hairs on the back of Satoru’s neck stand up.

Satoru couldn’t say anything. He just nodded hoping Yuuji could see him. His throat felt tight, clogged by his own guilt. As if any words he tried to say would only make things worse.

And really — what could he even say besides “sorry”?

Jeez. Even “sorry” didn’t feel like enough.

He knew he had been an asshole to Sukuna when they first met. He admitted that much. How stupid and dumb he could be to forget about the group name he changed that day. Satoru genuinely thought things had gotten better between them, but looking at the situation now, he was not sure.

Satoru stood up the second Yuuji ended the call so coldly. The abrupt silence in the room lingered for a moment before he moved. He grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, fingers slightly clumsy as he pulled it on. His car keys hung right beside it; he snatched them without thinking, shoved his feet into his shoes carelessly, barely tying them properly before stepping out.

He needed to pick Sukuna up now. Shoko and Utahime’s apartment was only two blocks away from his own. Ten to fifteen minutes by car, maybe less if the traffic was kind. Close enough that he could’ve walked but right now, he didn’t have the patience to wait any longer than he already did..

Satoru headed down to the basement parking garage, the echo of his footsteps bouncing against the concrete walls. The air smelled faintly of oil and cold metal. Satoru didn’t know what he was going to say when he saw Sukuna. That kid had been avoiding him for nearly two weeks. Ignoring messages. Leaving rooms when he entered. Keeping conversations short and distant. Satoru couldn’t read him and that was what unsettled him the most.

He could read almost anyone. Even Suguru. But not Sukuna. Sukuna had been a surprise from the very beginning.

The first time Satoru saw him, he had expected someone like Yuuji — loud, expressive, easy to tease. Instead, he got the complete opposite.

Yes, Sukuna looked like Yuuji. The resemblance was almost unsettling. Same face structure. Same height. Same voice tone underneath it all.

But everything else?

Totally different.

Sukuna with those deep red eyes that never softened easily. Sukuna with those tattoos tracing his face and hands, it’s so beautiful. Sukuna who always seemed irritated by the world with his perfect eyebrows. Sukuna who preferred to sit alone biting on his lips. Sukuna, who liked to dress in black. Sukuna who loved art. Sukuna who was frighteningly intelligent. Sukuna who spent hours in the library doing his assignment like there’s no tomorrow. Sukuna who quietly fed stray cats behind campus when he thought no one was watching.

Every layer Satoru peeled back revealed something unexpected. And that, more than anything, was what pulled him in. Not because Sukuna was easy. But because he wasn’t.

Sukuna was always full of surprises.

Like now. Satoru hadn’t even known that Sukuna was close enough to Utahime to drink together at her apartment. Sure, they looked close on campus, especially while working on their project. They were almost always side by side, heads bent over the same laptop, arguing quietly over details while the other members contributed here and there. Sometimes Satoru would catch Utahime shooting him sharp looks whenever he hovered too close to Sukuna, trying to slip in a comment, a joke, anything that would get Sukuna to glance his way instead of focusing on her or the project.

But Satoru had brushed it off as Utahime just being Utahime. He didn't know that they’re close like that. Utahime had never liked Satoru. Not even before he started dating Shoko. The dislike had always been obvious, barely concealed irritation every time he teased her, every time he showed up uninvited, every time he smirked a little too confidently.

Satoru never really understood why but Shoko once told him it was because he’s annoying and enjoyed provoking her, because he found her reactions entertaining. Maybe that was true. But even after he tried keeping his distance, even after he toned himself down, Utahime still rolled her eyes whenever he walked into a room. Or glare at him for no reason. So, he assumed it was just a mutual annoyance. Nothing deeper.

And now this. He hadn’t expected Utahime to be the one who told Sukuna about the group chat name. About the stupid, careless thing he did and then forgotten. Utahime wasn’t the type to meddle in other people’s business. She didn’t stir drama. She didn’t interfere unless it mattered.

Which meant this mattered.

Which meant she must feel close enough to Sukuna to think he deserved to know. Close enough to warn him. Close enough to call Satoru exactly what she probably thought he was—a jerk playing with someone’s feelings for his own amusement.

It wasn’t that Satoru wasn’t happy that Sukuna finally had a friend. If anything Satoru should be happy for him. But if that friend was Utahime, then the chances of him getting closer to Sukuna had probably just dropped lower than ever.

He might truly lose that opportunity, especially after what had happened tonight. Sukuna would never forgive him now. The kid would pull away again, build those invisible walls higher than before, and this time he’d probably hate Satoru for real.

And that was what hurt the most. Because these past few weeks things have been better. At least, Satoru had thought so. He had felt the subtle shift in the air between them. The tension wasn’t as sharp. The conversations, though still guarded, had grown slightly longer. When Satoru opened up about his nightmares—something he rarely, if ever, talked about—he had done it with a fragile kind of hope. He wanted Sukuna to know he wasn’t alone. That it was okay to be haunted by the past. That he could have someone to lean on.

Satoru had hoped Sukuna would see that and feel safe enough to share his own burdens.

But of course, Sukuna was never predictable. Instead of finding comfort, he had withdrawn. Not only that, he even apologized, as if having a nightmare were somehow his fault. As if his mere existence was something to be sorry for. And that had unsettled Satoru more than any argument they could have.

Every day after that, Satoru tried to catch him. Tried to talk. Tried to tell him that he didn’t need to apologize. That Satoru wasn’t blaming him. That none of it was his fault. But Sukuna slipped away like an eel trying to escape. Because, everytime he spotted Satoru at the end of a hallway, he would turn sharply and disappear. He hid inside the art club room, a territory Satoru couldn’t easily invade, especially with Utahime as the club president. He stayed out late on campus, dragging his time there longer than necessary just to avoid going home at the same hour.

Every night, Sukuna waited until he thought Satoru was asleep before returning. The footsteps were careful. Slow, deliberate, almost silent. A pause outside the living room. The faint click of the door. Then the softest movement down the hallway before his bedroom door shut.

Satoru wasn’t just blessed with sharp eyes. His ears were sensitive. His instincts even sharper. He knew exactly what Sukuna was doing. And seeing that Sukuna bent his entire schedule just to avoid him made something in Satoru ache.

So he chose to step back. To give him time.

Gojo Satoru—the man who never respected boundaries, who laughed at the very concept of limits—was trying to learn what space meant.

For Sukuna, he was trying.

Satoru parked his black Audi in the lot in front of the lobby, shutting the door a little harder than necessary before striding toward the entrance. The night air was cool, but his thoughts were anything but calm.

He remembered the first time he came here. Shoko had told him she decided to move in with Utahime, and somehow—mostly because of Satoru’s impulsive encouragement—they ended up throwing a sudden housewarming party. It had been chaotic, loud, and entirely unnecessary. Utahime had spent most of that evening glaring at him as if he personally offended her by existing inside her new apartment with his girlfriend who was also Satoru’s best friend.

The second time he visited was different. Shoko had called him for help after her clothes were stained with someone else’s blood during a charity medical event with her department. She needed a change of clothes, and Satoru had offered to bring some over. Utahime, who had been down with the flu at the time, opened the door wrapped in a blanket, her expression tired and faintly apologetic because she couldn’t accompany Shoko that day.

Satoru, attempting to be civil for the sake of Shoko, had tried to reassure her in his usual way. Light tone and casual smile. A little humor to ease the awkwardness. He thought he saw the smallest hint of a smile from Utahime then, and she even thanked him quietly. For a brief moment, Satoru believed that maybe she wasn’t as hostile toward him as he had assumed.

That illusion didn’t last long.

A few days later, he ran into her again and was met with the familiar eye roll the moment he started speaking. Whatever temporary truce they might have had dissolved instantly. After that, Satoru stopped trying to build any kind of friendly dynamic with her. He kept things neutral. And Shoko never seemed particularly bothered by their lack of harmony. She acted as if it was simply part of the natural order of things—Utahime and Satoru not quite getting along.

And now, here he was. Now he had to try again. Because Sukuna was close to Utahime. Because the person he liked considered her a friend. Just thinking about it made Satoru press his fingers against his temple, massaging away the headache forming there.

-------------------------

Satoru pressed the doorbell and waited for it to open like a man who had clearly hit rock bottom. He was still wearing his sleep shirt, hastily thrown under a thick brown jacket, and his shoes didn’t even match. So much for Gojo Satoru, the man who never stepped outside without looking like he had walked off a magazine cover. He had forgotten his glasses. He hadn’t brought his wallet. His hair was undoubtedly a mess from how many times he had raked and tugged at it in frustration.

If there were ever a time he looked less like himself, this was it.

He was certain Shoko would never let him live this down.

The door swung open, and right on cue, Shoko stared at him as if he were some extraterrestrial creature that had crash-landed in front of her apartment.

“Don’t,” Satoru muttered immediately, noticing the corner of her mouth twitching as she struggled not to laugh.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation and kicked off his mismatched shoes near the entrance. Shoko shut the door behind him, still visibly fighting back her amusement.

“Gojo. You look… different.” Nanami’s voice came from the kitchen area. He was standing near the counter, and beside him was Haibara Yuu, leaning casually as if this entire situation were some kind of late-night social gathering instead of a disaster. 

“Yes, yes, laugh all you want,” Satoru waved a dismissive hand, his eyes scanning the apartment restlessly. “Where’s Sukuna?”

“Not here.”

Satoru turned and found Utahime standing a short distance away, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“Oh. Hi, lightweight,” he said with a lazy wave, offering her a teasing smirk as if he weren’t standing there looking like he had been dragged out of bed by an emergency alarm.

She looked ready to throw him out herself. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Satoru gestured dramatically toward himself. “Obviously I’m here to pick up Sukuna. The one you took drinking unwisely. Honestly, Uta, I didn’t know you were such a terrible influence. Inviting someone who can’t even hold his liquor to drink that much?” He pointed at the battlefield of empty beer bottles scattered across the living room like evidence in a crime scene. “I’m disappointed.”

Utahime’s brows furrowed instantly. “Don’t act like you know everything.”

“Oh, but I do know everything," Satoru replied smoothly. Smirking like a menace. Challenging.

For a brief moment, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. They exchanged sharp, lethal stares, neither willing to look away first. If looks could kill, there would have been a body on the floor.

Shoko, standing between them, let out a long, exhausted sigh. She stepped forward, smacked Satoru lightly on the head, and muttered, “Don't be an ass, Satoru.”

Then she turned toward Utahime, whose expression suggested she might actually throw up, whether from the alcohol or from Satoru’s presence, it was hard to tell.

“Uta? What about the bridge?” Haibara’s voice called out from the kitchen, catching all of them off guard.

Utahime blinked, as if suddenly remembering something important. “Oh,” she said flatly, then her eyes sharpened. “Right. I regret it. I’m going to burn that fucking bridge right now.”

And before anyone could process what she meant, she launched herself at Satoru.

One second she was standing with her arms crossed; the next she had her hands in his hair, yanking hard, while the other arm hooked around his neck in something between a headlock and an attempted assassination. It was fast. Reckless. Completely unhinged.

“—What the hell?!” Satoru stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance as Utahime clung to him like a vengeful koala.

Shoko, who clearly hadn’t signed up for live entertainment at two in the morning, immediately rushed forward. “Uta! Let go of him!”

But Utahime, fueled by alcohol and long-suppressed irritation, tightened her grip instead. “No!” she snapped.

“What the fuck?!” Satoru choked out, trying to pry her arm from his throat without actually hurting her. For all his strength, he was painfully aware that if he applied even a little too much force, he could genuinely injure her and that would only make things worse. So he twisted awkwardly, attempting to free himself without escalating the situation.

Utahime, it turned out, was an absolute menace when drunk.

As if the scene wasn’t chaotic enough, Haibara suddenly appeared at Satoru’s side. “For emotional support!” he declared, before weakly punching Satoru’s arm with whatever strength his alcohol-drenched limbs could muster.

Satoru stared at him in disbelief. “You too?!”

Nanami, who had clearly not expected his boyfriend to sprint across the apartment in that state, looked momentarily stunned. “Haibara—” But Haibara had already committed to the bit, swatting at Satoru again in what could generously be described as a tipsy attempt at justice.

The living room descended into full-blown chaos.

Shoko was trying to peel Utahime off Satoru’s back while simultaneously scolding her. Utahime refused to let go, still tangled in Satoru’s hair and collar. Satoru staggered sideways, nearly tripping over the graveyard of empty beer bottles scattered across the floor. One rolled under his heel, making him flail slightly to keep from crashing onto the floor. “Can everyone stop attacking me for five seconds?!” he protested, voice strained.

Nanami finally stepped in, grabbing Haibara firmly by the shoulders and lifting him away from the scene with ease. “That’s enough,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument.

Meanwhile, Shoko managed to wedge herself between Utahime and Satoru, prying Utahime’s fingers from Satoru’s hair one by one. It was not graceful. Utahime hissed in protest. Satoru winced dramatically as a few strands of white hair paid the ultimate price.

Eventually, with Nanami’s help, they succeeded in pulling Haibara off Satoru’s.

“Uta?”

The voice cut through the chaos like a needle dropping in a crowded room. Everyone froze mid-motion and turned toward the source.

There, half-awake on the floor behind the low table in front of the TV, Sukuna blinked sluggishly as he tried to make sense of the noise. He looked disoriented, brows drawn together in confusion. His face was a mess. Hair flattened on one side, lips slightly parted, cheeks faintly flushed from the alcohol. The blanket that had been wrapped around him slipped halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself up on unsteady arms.

His movements were slow and poorly coordinated, like his body and brain were arguing over who was in charge.

Seeing the opening, Satoru carefully untangled himself from Utahime, who had gone oddly stiff the moment Sukuna spoke. She quickly climbed off him, smoothing her own clothes as if trying to salvage what little dignity she had left. Apparently, even in her drunken state, she had no intention of ruining her image in front of her new friend.

Satoru straightened his jacket, breathing slightly heavier than he would ever admit, his hair now beyond saving.

But his attention was already locked on Sukuna.

He recognized the signs immediately. The tightness around Sukuna’s mouth, the way he kept covering it with his hand, swallowing hard as if fighting something down. Satoru knew he was trying not to throw up. And he knew that not by guesswork, but from the information he had once gathered during one of his more questionable decisions—following Sukuna around with the help of a private investigator. Among the many unnecessary details he had obtained was one simple fact that Sukuna had a low tolerance for alcohol.

Time seemed to slow for him. Satoru just stood there for a second, watching him, unsure what to say. In the background, Utahime and Shoko were muttering about nausea and the bathroom. Nanami’s voice drifted faintly through the room as he scolded Haibara while forcing his shoes back onto his feet.

“Satoru,” Shoko’s voice rang sharply, cutting through his thoughts, “I swear, if Sukuna throws up there, you’re cleaning it.”

Satoru glanced over his shoulder.

The scene was beginning to settle. Haibara had gone completely limp in Nanami’s arms, shoes on his feet, unconscious or close enough to it, and Nanami looked more than ready to remove himself from Gojo Satoru’s disaster of a night. He gave Satoru a brief nod at the door—one that clearly said, I am not getting involved in this—and left without further comment.

Utahime, on the other hand, suddenly looked far less combative. She clung to Shoko, her face paling by the second. A heartbeat later, she bolted toward the bathroom. The unmistakable sound of retching followed almost immediately.

Shoko sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that night and hurried after her. Before disappearing down the hallway, she waved lazily at Nanami in farewell and shot Satoru a look that suggested she had absolutely no patience left to spare for him.

Then they were gone. The apartment fell quieter. Now it was just him and Sukuna at opposite ends of the room.

Satoru let out a long breath.

He stepped carefully over the scattered bottles, snacks and displaced cushions, navigating the wreckage like he was walking through the aftermath of a storm. When he reached Sukuna, he lowered himself to his knees in front of him.

Sukuna was still sitting on the floor, one hand braced against the fluffy rug, the other hovering uncertainly near his mouth.

Up close, the flush on his cheeks was more obvious. It was kind of cute, Satoru thinks.

“Hey.” Satoru barely recognized his own voice. It was too soft. So careful. He had never sounded like this before. Not before Sukuna.

Sukuna blinked slowly, his red eyes unfocused but still painfully beautiful. For a fleeting second, Satoru had the ridiculous urge to lean in and press a kiss against those eyelids as they fluttered. Instead, he stayed where he was. Trying not to make this worse.

And to his utter bewilderment, Sukuna lifted his hand and touched Satoru’s cheek. “What happened?”

Satoru hadn’t even realized he’d been scratched until that moment. The sting registered only after Sukuna’s fingers brushed over the tender skin. Ah. Right. Utahime’s handiwork.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. Thanks for the claw marks, Utahime. At least they got him to touch my face.

“Utahime happened,” Satoru replied dryly, though there was no bite behind it. Deep down, he knew he probably deserved it. He gently wrapped his fingers around Sukuna’s hands on his face, holding it against his cheek for just a second longer than necessary.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Sukuna didn’t seem to process the apology. His brows knit together slightly, and instead of responding, he asked, “Where’s Yuuji?”

“He couldn’t come,” Satoru answered, half smiling. “We can call him later when we get home, okay?”

Sukuna considered that with a sluggish nod. “Okay.”

Obedient Sukuna was dangerous. Too soft. Too unguarded. Satoru had to physically restrain himself from pulling him into a tight embrace and confessing everything—how sorry he was, how badly he’d messed up, how much he didn’t want to lose him.

Instead, he inhaled slowly and steadied himself.

“Okay. Alright. Let’s get you home.” Satoru reached for Sukuna’s hoodie, which was draped over the arm of the sofa, and grabbed his phone from where it had been abandoned on the floor and put it inside one of his pocket jackets. He carefully guided Sukuna’s arms through the sleeves, helping him put it back on.

To his surprise, Sukuna didn’t resist. He simply let Satoru move him into place, pliant and quiet, like a marionette with its strings gently pulled. 

After making sure Sukuna’s hoodie was properly zipped up to his chin, hood adjusted, no gap left for the cold night air to sneak in, Satoru bent down in front of him, clearly intending to carry him.

But Sukuna had other plans. Instead of accepting the offer, he pushed himself up on shaky legs and began walking toward the door on his own, ignoring Satoru entirely.

Satoru blinked once, then let out a quiet and fond huff of disbelief before following after him.

Sukuna was clearly only half-conscious, his steps uneven, his face pale with that unmistakable I’m-about-to-throw-up expression. Without a word, Satoru crouched down to help him put on his shoes, guiding his feet in carefully when Sukuna missed the openings the first time.

Once Sukuna was steady enough to stand, Satoru straightened and raised his voice toward the hallway. “We’re leaving!” he called out. “Good luck in there!”

From somewhere inside the bathroom, Shoko shouted something back that sounded vaguely threatening, followed by the unmistakable sound of Utahime still losing her battle with alcohol.

Satoru didn’t linger. He slipped an arm around Sukuna’s shoulders as they stepped out of the apartment, easing the door shut behind them. Sukuna leaned slightly into him, not enough to admit weakness, but enough that Satoru felt the weight.

They moved down the hallway slowly, Sukuna stumbling every few steps. Satoru adjusted his pace without complaint, matching him stride for uneven stride.

And together, they left Utahime’s apartment behind, heading into the quiet night on their way home.

-------------------------

Satoru hadn’t expected this.

For someone Sukuna’s size, he was far lighter than he looked. He wasn’t as muscular as Yuuji, nor was he as tall but still, Satoru hadn’t imagined he would weigh this little. Sukuna didn’t feel any heavier than Yuta, who was actually smaller than him. In fact, if Satoru remembered correctly, when he had carried Yuta out of that New Year’s party last year—completely drunk and clinging like a koala—Yuta had felt heavier than this. That realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.

He adjusted Sukuna’s weight on his back. Earlier, long before they reached Satoru’s parking lot, Sukuna had finally given in to exhaustion and fallen asleep, his head slumped against Satoru’s car window. Also, his phone had been ringing for the past ten minutes. Satoru had intentionally ignored it.

He was almost certain it was Yuuji calling. And truth be told, he wasn’t sure he could handle facing both Sukuna and Yuuji at the same time. Not like this, not in the middle of this fragile situation. So, he chose to let it ring and focused on helping Sukuna get to the apartment before he threw up.

Satoru tightened his hold and continued toward the building entrance instead. The entire way back, Sukuna had been making faint, strained noises, like he was on the verge of crying from how hard he was fighting the nausea. Each sound had twisted something deep inside Satoru, like someone wringing out his heart. What Satoru couldn’t understand was why Sukuna insisted on holding it in.

Satoru had offered again and again for him to just throw up. By the gutter near the parking area. Halfway down the street, where no one would care. Even in the apartment lobby, he had quietly told him it was fine.

But every time, Sukuna only shook his head, brows furrowed stubbornly, jaw tight, determined to endure it until he got home. Satoru couldn’t make sense of it. Why torture yourself just to make it to your own bathroom? Was he afraid of troubling other people? Was he scared of being a burden if he threw up? Or was he worried someone would scold him for making such a mess?

The mere thought of someone scolding or yelling at Sukuna over something as trivial as throwing up — something he couldn’t control— made Satoru’s blood boil.

The sound of the elevator ding pulled Satoru out of his thoughts.

He adjusted Sukuna’s weight on his back once more before stepping out into the hallway and heading toward his apartment. This time, he quickened his pace, lengthening his strides. The faster he got there, the better. Because the longer Sukuna clung to his back, the more out of control his heartbeat became.

Sukuna’s breathing fanned softly against his neck. It’s warm, slow and steady. His hair brushed against Satoru’s nape, light strands tickling his skin.

And his lips—God. His lips were pressed against the side of Satoru’s neck, moving faintly as he mumbled something incoherent. There was no way Satoru could make out the words. Not when his brain was far too busy trying to ignore the sensation of Sukuna’s mouth shifting against his skin. Each small movement sent a shiver downward, from his neck to his spine, then lower, coiling in his stomach and making him feel like he was strapped into an upside-down roller coaster with no safety harness.

Out of everything that had happened today, Satoru suddenly felt profoundly grateful that his apartment’s security system wasn’t a simple PIN pad.

In situations like this, when both hands were occupied and his thoughts were barely functioning, he could rely on the retinal scanner instead. He leaned slightly toward the panel, and the door unlocked with a soft mechanical click. He quietly thanked whoever invented advanced biometric technology and to his obscenely wealthy family for letting him afford it.

The door slid open.

Satoru stepped inside and nudged it shut behind him with his heel. He slipped off his mix match shoes quickly but didn’t bother with Sukuna’s yet. Keeping him secured on his back, he walked straight to the long sofa in the living room. He bent down carefully, slow and steady, and eased Sukuna onto the couch.

The moment his feet touched the floor, Sukuna tried to sit upright on his own. Whatever stubborn energy he had left pushed him to attempt it but it didn’t last. Instead of straightening, he ended up folding forward even more, shoulders curling inward as if his head had suddenly gained the weight of a hundred kilograms of concrete.

Satoru reacted immediately. He placed one large hand flat against Sukuna’s chest and the other against his back, steadying him before he could topple face-first onto the coffee table or wedge himself awkwardly between the sofa and its edge.

“Easy,” Satoru murmured, “You want to go to the toilet first?” His voice was low and patient. He kept his hands there, anchoring him, making sure he wouldn’t fall.

Sukuna shook his head and lurched forward again.

“C’mon, Sukuna. Sit up properly, yeah? I need to take your shoes off first.”

“—Hnnngh.”

Sukuna let out a strained, half-protesting sound, as if Satoru were being unreasonable for asking that, because he was really trying to sit upright, you know.

Satoru exhaled through his nose, steadying him again before crouching down to work on the laces.

Satoru removed Sukuna’s shoes slowly, as if he didn't want a moment like this to end. It was a rare instance where he and Sukuna could exist normally, without hurling hurtful remarks or dripping with sarcasm—interacting like two people who didn't actually hate each other. His mind drifted back to that morning when Sukuna had been civil, his mouth full of blueberry pancakes. Without realizing it, a faint smile tugged at Satoru’s lips.

“Why did you do that?” Sukuna’s voice was slurred, heavy with intoxication, making Satoru freeze. It was a harsh reminder that the moment was over. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he knew he didn't deserve this peace.

With his hands still resting near Sukuna’s feet. Sliding slightly upward to circle his ankles, Satoru looked up. He studied Sukuna’s face intently, as if searching for a clue on how to answer.

Because he certainly couldn’t say: “Oh, I just like messing with people, and I’m a bit possessive of those around me. So, forgive me if you’ve become the target of my twisted personality.”

No, Satoru could never say that. So instead, he chose to do the one thing his mother always told him to do when he made a mistake. The very first thing, Satoru. You have to apologize, and promise not to do it again.

“I’m sorry, Sukuna.” For some reason, his grip on Sukuna’s ankles tightened. He applied a gentle, steady pressure, wanting to prove that this was real nad his words were sincere, not just the usual nonsense he was prone to spewing.

Sukuna fell silent at that. This time, his crimson eyes locked onto Satoru’s blue ones. It was as if deciphering Satoru’s apology was the most difficult task he’d ever faced.

“It’s fine. I deserved it anyway,” Sukuna said softly, his voice trailing off. It sounded like an admission of defeat, a surrender to something he felt wasn't worth fighting for.

“No, no, no. You, of all people, don't deserve that.” Satoru moved his hands from Sukuna’s ankles to his knees, trying to emphasize that Sukuna had to believe him. “I promise I’ll explain everything tomorrow when you’re sober. Why I changed the group chat name, why I acted like—”

“Group chat?” Sukuna interrupted, his tone laced with confusion. He had no idea what Satoru was talking about. He wasn't thinking about a group chat; he was thinking about the way Satoru had looked at him during the committee meeting today. Why had Satoru looked at him with such coldness, yet acted like he cared?

"Yeah, the group chat. Isn't that what you meant?"

Sukuna’s frown deepened for a beat before it slowly smoothed out. A tired, almost mocking look replaced his confusion as he realized Satoru had absolutely no idea what he was actually talking about.

“Wait. You’re not asking about that? Then what? What else did I do? Is there something else?” It was Satoru’s turn to be bewildered. He knew he’d been a jerk when they first met, but he’d tried his best to change over the last few weeks. He thought their relationship had improved since the time he’d stalked Sukuna everywhere, even to his workplace. He’d promised himself not to do that again and already apologized for all of that in the library the other day, even though Sukuna hadn't exactly accepted it. Was there something else he’d done to hurt him since then? Satoru was completely clueless.

Sukuna shook his head weakly. “Today.”

Satoru waited. He waited for Sukuna to finish the sentence, but the words never came. It was as if Sukuna expected him to understand what “today” meant beyond the group chat drama. Unfortunately for Sukuna, there was one thing he needed to realize about Gojo Satoru. The man was dense. He lacked the intuition to recognize the fallout of his own actions on the people he hurt.

On top of being so oblivious, Satoru was also impatient. “What? What about today? What did I do today?”

Hearing Satoru’s oblivious response, Sukuna simply clamped his mouth shut. He clearly regretted saying anything at all. The spark of confrontation in him died instantly. He withdrew into his own silence, drifting away into a space where Satoru could no longer touch him. Screw him. He shouldn't have said anything.

Satoru cursed himself under his breath. The last thing he wanted was for Sukuna to retreat back into his shell. His hands were now settled on Sukuna’s calves, his grip wide and warm—a gentle, steady hold that suddenly made Sukuna flushed. It was honestly the only thing keeping him from drifting away entirely.

“Sukuna, listen to me—”

Whatever Satoru was about to say was cut short by the shrill, persistent ringing of his phone. It blared loud and long, immediately followed by the rhythmic buzz of Sukuna’s own phone vibrating in his jacket pocket.

Satoru cursed inwardly. Yuuji was really relentless.

“F-fuck. Fine. Okay. Let’s finish this talk when you’re sober, yeah?” He was halfway through pulling off Sukuna’s right shoe—which was still dangling from his foot, abandoned during their heavy conversation—when Sukuna suddenly began fumbling around, searching for his phone. He patted the sofa cushions, then the coffee table, before his hands wandered clumsily across Satoru’s shoulders and chest.

“Where’s my phone?” His voice wavered, yet there was a demanding pull to it, sounding strained and utterly frazzled.

“Wait. Hold on—” Satoru tried to keep him steady as Sukuna grew more frantic and panicked. Desperate trying to find his phone. Attempting to yank his leg out of Satoru’s grip while continuing his search like finding his phone was so important it’s a matter of life and death.

“Hey, calm down! I’ll get it for you, okay?”

“I want my phone!” The words came out angry, snapped out in frustration. But underneath the anger, it felt small and fragile, trailing off into something that sounded painfully like a whimper.

Surely Satoru misunderstood that tone. But he hadn’t. Sukuna was on the verge of tears. His eyes were glossy, moisture pooling at the corners, threatening to spill over at any second. His cheeks were flushed. Whether from alcohol or emotion, Satoru couldn’t tell, but the sight did absolutely nothing to help to calm his racing pulse.

It shouldn’t make his heart race like this. Seeing someone about to cry shouldn’t send his chest into overdrive. And yet here he was.

He swallowed.

Unbelievable, he thought bitterly. You’re pathetic, Gojo Satoru.

This is bad. You’re a bad man, Satoru. A very bad man. A truly awful person for feeling this way.

Right, he was bad, he was weak when it came to that face. Because why—why did Sukuna have to look that  breathtakingly beautiful when he was about to cry?

The movement of Sukuna’s hands fumbling insistently around his jacket snapped Satoru out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Hey!” Satoru quickly caught his wrists before Sukuna could dig any deeper into his pockets. The problem wasn’t just the phone anymore. The problem was that Sukuna’s fingers kept brushing against his waist, his stomach, and his ribs. Every accidental touch sends Satoru’s heart into complete disarray. This level of skinship had long crossed the line of what should be considered safe.

Before Sukuna could protest further, Satoru reached into the pocket himself, finally pulled the phone out, and answered it without even checking the caller ID.

Sukuna immediately pouted. Actually pouted.

Satoru let out a sharp breath through his nose at the sight. My heart is being punished tonight, he thought grimly.

“Hello?”

“Why did you take so long to pick up?!” Yuuji’s voice burst through the phone at full volume. “Where are you? Did you pick Sukuna up already? Is he okay?”

Satoru winced and held the phone slightly away from his ear. “I don’t know if you expect me to have superpowers or something, Yuuji,” he replied dryly, “but carrying your drunk brother home takes time, okay?” His voice was a mix of annoyance and frustration that his conversation with Sukuna had been interrupted, and that Sukuna now had a perfect excuse to avoid explaining what he’d meant earlier because of Yuuji's call.

There was a pause on the other end. “…Right. Sorry. Can I talk to him?”

Satoru glanced at Sukuna, who was staring at him expectantly, eyes still glossy.

“I don’t know, Yuuji. He’s pretty drunk. I’m not sure he’ll even understand what you’re saying.” Satoru was a petty man. And he sure was possessive too. 

“Just give him the phone, Satoru.”

“…Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

He handed it over. Sukuna took the phone immediately, clutching it like it was the most important thing in the world. And just like that, Satoru felt dismissed.

He stood up and stepped away, shrugging off his own jacket. Suddenly, the apartment felt unbearably warm. For reasons he absolutely understood and refused to dwell on. He headed toward the kitchen, grabbing two glasses and pouring water to cool himself down after reacting so dramatically.

From the living room, he could hear Sukuna’s voice.

“Yuuji? Yuuji? Can I ask something?”

A small pause.

“Hmm? Yeah,  ’m fine.”

Satoru could only hear one side of the conversation as he leaned against the kitchen counter, reaching for a hangover pill in one of his cabinets, pretending not to listen.

“Yeah. I promise.”

There was another silence.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Hmm. ‘kay.” Sukuna paused. And suddenly his tone shifted, uncertain and hesitant. “And, Yuuji?”

Satoru froze mid-movement, every instinct telling him to eavesdrop, even though he knew perfectly well that from this distance, it was impossible to make out Yuuji’s replies or what they’re talking about.

“I remember you said you visit Choso’s because Aunt Mei-mei is coming?” Sukuna continued softly. “Can I talk to Aunt Mei-Mei? But… but if she doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s okay too.”

That made Satoru’s grip tightened around the glass in his hand.

Damn it.

The sadness in Sukuna’s voice was subtle, but it was there. Threaded carefully between each word. It made something inside Satoru snap tight, like a wire pulled too far. He stared at the refrigerator door in front of him, resisting the very real urge to punch it.

“Or, could you just ask her for me? Please?”

Satoru couldn’t hear Yuuji’s reply. He couldn’t even hear Sukuna say anything else after that. But he could hear the faint rustling coming from the living room—the soft shifting of fabric, the subtle creak of the sofa, the quiet sound of movement. The silence that followed Sukuna’s last please stretched just a second too long.

Satoru returned to the living room carrying two glasses of cold water. One in each hand and a single hangover pill between his fingers he had grabbed from the first-aid cabinet in his kitchen. He hadn’t been able to stay away for long. Half of it was concern. The other half was pure curiosity. He wanted to know what they were talking about.

When he stepped back into the room, he found Sukuna lying on his side on the sofa, his phone propped up in front of his face. His eyes kept fluttering shut, only to blink open again a second later, stubbornly fighting sleep.

Satoru’s gaze dropped to the screen. The speaker was on. He found himself almost smiling. And he hated himself for that. He felt like an intruder. Not that he felt bad about it and would stop eavesdropping. Or just leave Sukuna with Yuuji alone so they could have some privacy to talk about whatever. No, Satoru won’t do that. Not today at least.

This was convenient, honestly. Very convenient. All he had to do was sit there quietly and pretend he wasn’t listening to a single word. He could act completely uninvolved while catching every bit of the conversation. Because the truth was, he really wanted to know. What had Sukuna wanted to ask so badly that his voice had sounded that small? That uncertain and sad?

Satoru set Sukuna’s glass of water and the pill down on the coffee table within easy reach. Then he took a slow sip from his own glass, remaining on his feet instead of sitting down. He watched Sukuna carefully. Waited. And listened. Just acting like the water on his hand was so interesting it tasted incredible.

But he couldn’t deny that he found himself holding his breath slightly, anticipating whatever response Yuuji was about to give to his brother's request that had clearly taken more courage than Sukuna would ever admit.

“Of course Aunt Mei wants to talk to you, Sukuna. Hold on a second.”

There was another rustling sound on the other end of the line—fabric shifting, footsteps, the faint shuffle of movement. Satoru didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until—

“Hello? Sukuna, darling? Are you alright? Is everything okay? Auntie has missed you so much. It’s been ages since I haven’t seen you. Why didn’t you stop by to visit, dear?”

Satoru felt something in his chest loosen. Thank God. If that woman had refused to speak to Sukuna, Satoru was so ready to kick some ass and certain as hell his heart would have shattered right alongside Sukuna’s. Honestly, how much rejection had this kid endured that he felt the need to ask permission just to speak to his own aunt?

“Mmm… hi, Aunt Mei-Mei.” Sukuna’s voice was softer now. Careful as if he’s afraid he’d make a mistake with his tone. “Mhm. I’m okay.” He blinked slowly, gaze unfocused, staring past the wall as if looking through something no one else could see. He mumbles a soft “Thank you.” at the end. Though Satoru didn’t know why Sukuna thanked his aunt. Because she let him talk to her? Because she cared?

Satoru swallowed. Sukuna’s response was painfully awkward. Stilted. Like someone unfamiliar with being spoken to gently. As though he didn’t quite know what to do with affection once it was handed to him.

“Good. I’m glad to hear you’re alright,” Mei-Mei replied warmly. “Yuuji told me what happened. So… what did you want to ask, hm?”

There was one or two minutes of silence before Sukuna finally said anything.

“Mmm… it’s just…” There it was again—that hesitation. Satoru leaned forward slightly without meaning to. He felt like a creeper doing this.

“Do you know who’s older? Yuuji or me?” Satoru nearly choked on his own spit. Barely managed to swallow it in time, coughing under his breath as he stared at Sukuna in disbelief.

That’s what this was about?

He had expected something heavy. Something painful. Something that explained the sadness in Sukuna’s voice. But it turned out this was still about the same issue. The same question that had been circling Sukuna’s mind for days now.

Who was older between him and Yuuji?

Satoru genuinely did not understand why that mattered so much to Sukuna.

A brief silence settled over the living room. Even Satoru could feel the slight tension stretching across the line, like everyone on the call instinctively knew this question carried more weight than it sounded like it should. He moved closer to the single sofa and the coffee table next to Sukuna. He put his glass of water down at the table and sat down. Resting his elbows on his knees. From this distance, he could study every flicker of expression on Sukuna’s face.

The slow blink. The tightness at the corners of his mouth. The faint crease between his brows. Satoru found himself unexpectedly invested in the answer too.

Then a soft clearing of a throat came from the other end of the line. “Sukuna, darling…” his aunt’s voice was gentle, almost fragile, as if she were afraid that even the wrong tone might hurt him. “To be honest, I don’t know. Your mother gave birth to both of you in secret. We only found out later when we visit, after you were already one or two months old. Yuuji said he saw his birth certificate and yours, but he can’t seem to find them now. However, I do know one of your mother’s close friends. She’s a doctor, and I know that she was there with your mother when you were born because she was her private doctor for a long time ago. I can ask her, if that would make you feel better. How does that sound, hm?”

“Hmm. Yeah. Okay.” It looked like Sukuna couldn’t hold it anymore. A single tear slipped from the corner of Sukuna’s eye, trailing slowly down his cheek before soaking into the white fabric of Satoru’s sofa, leaving behind a damp mark.

Satoru tightened his grip around his own hand, fingers digging into his palm as the urge to reach out. To wipe that tear away, to cradle Sukuna’s face, to tell him it would be fine. He felt like he burned beneath his skin.

“I’m sorry, Auntie.”

“Hey, hey. You don’t need to apologize,” she replied quickly, warmth filling her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to know who’s older, love.” There’s a pause. Then she continued, her tone was careful and kind. ”And if I may ask, sweetheart, why? Why does it matter so much to you? Is something bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?”

At that, Sukuna bit down harder on his lower lip. His eyes squeezed shut for a long moment, lashes trembling before he forced them open again, blinking slowly as more tears gathered and fell. Clear and fragile like crystals that Satoru suddenly felt an irrational urge to shatter just so they would stop existing.

The silence stretched. And that made Satoru feel something cold crawl up his spine. The room felt suffocatingly quiet. Satoru’s fingers twitched again, this time almost uncontrollably. He wanted to cross the small distance between them, to kneel in front of Sukuna and give him the tightest, warmest hug he deserved.

“Hmmm. I ‘ust miss your omurice.”

That was all Sukuna said. As if he hadn’t just been asked a question that cut straight to the heart of him. As if he hadn’t nearly unraveled seconds ago. He simply sidestepped it. Changed the subject. Even drunk, he deflected with practiced ease.

Satoru had already known Sukuna wasn’t someone who opened up easily. But he hadn’t expected it to be this difficult, even with his own family. Even when he was vulnerable.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the call.

Then came a soft laugh.

Satoru exhaled quietly. God bless this woman, he thought sincerely. He would personally see to it that she received every ounce of kindness this world had to offer, just for the way she handled Sukuna.

“Of course! Of course, love!” Mei-Mei’s voice brightened immediately, warm and enthusiastic. “Come over anytime and I’ll make it for you, okay? How about next week? Can you do that? Yuuji can take you, and if he’s busy, Choso will come pick you up, alright? Next week we’ll have dinner together at my house! It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you, oh my goodness, I’ve missed you so much. Do your poor old aunt a favor and come visit, hmm?”

Sukuna’s lips lifted slightly. A small smile, a real one.

And for that alone, Satoru silently thanked every god, deity, and cosmic force in existence. He hated seeing Sukuna sad. He would do almost anything to see that faint curve of a smile again.

From there, the conversation grew lighter. Mei-Mei, Yuuji, and occasionally Choso chimed in, discussing plans for next week. What they would cook. What time Sukuna should come. Who would pick him up.

Sukuna responded sleepily, giving short answers, his words beginning to slur at the edges. But Satoru could tell that he didn’t want the moment to end. Even as his eyelids drooped heavily, even as his voice grew softer, he was trying to stay awake. Trying to hold onto it.

Yuuji, as always, noticed. Even from miles away, without seeing him, he sensed it.

“Alright,” Yuuji said gently through the speaker. “You’re falling asleep, aren’t you? We’ll talk properly tomorrow, okay? We still need to discuss a few things. When you’re sober and not trying to change the subject.” There was fond exasperation in his tone.

Sukuna hummed in vague agreement.

Satoru took that as his cue. He leaned forward and carefully took the phone.

“I’ll hang up now,” Satoru said. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“Take care of him,” Yuuji replied quietly.

“I will,” Satoru answered, more serious than he usually allowed himself to sound.

He ended the call and placed the phone gently on the coffee table. Then he moved closer to the sofa. Sukuna was still lying on his side, eyes closed, breathing slow and uneven. The faint smile from earlier had faded, replaced by pure exhaustion.

Satoru crouched beside him, his expression softening without restraint.

“Come on, you drunk menace. You can’t sleep here or your headache will be ten times worse tomorrow.” Satoru lowered himself to sit directly in front of Sukuna and gently lifted one of his arms, trying to guide him into a proper sitting position.

Sukuna complied without resistance. He blinked slowly, then fixed Satoru with an intense stare like he wanted to say something but was holding it back.

They stayed like that for a while. Just looking at each other. Studying the lines of each other’s faces at a distance far too close to be considered safe.

“Want me to carry you?” Satoru teased lightly, fully expecting Sukuna to reject the idea out of pride.

Sukuna’s gaze had drifted again, distant, unfocused. Satoru tapped his knee gently to get his attention. “Hey. Earth to Sukuna. Let’s go.”

He was still kneeling between Sukuna’s legs, waiting for some kind of response. Some sign that the boy was ready to move to the bedroom. Instead, he noticed something else. Sukuna wasn’t looking at his eyes. He was staring at his lips.

Yes. His lips.

Satoru knew he had nice lips. He’d been told enough times. But usually, when someone was this close to him, they got distracted by his eyes first—bright blue eyes, striking, impossible to ignore.

But not Sukuna. Sukuna was staring at his mouth like it had personally offended him. And said, “They said… if you want someone’s attention, you should kiss them.”

Satoru blinked. He genuinely had no idea what went on inside Ryomen Sukuna’s head. Wasn’t this kid sleepy like a minute ago? Why was he bringing up a kiss now?

“Yeah?” Satoru smirked, knowing who was responsible for this nonsense. So, he decided to play along. “Who said that?” 

Because when else would he get a conversation like this? Normal—well, as normal as discussing kissing could be.

“My friends.”

“Oh? And who are these brilliant friends?”

“Utahime and Haibara.”

Satoru exhaled sharply. “Yeah? Don’t listen to them.” He mentally cursed both of them for filling Sukuna’s head with whatever reckless romantic nonsense they had been preaching all night.

Sukuna shook his head stubbornly, clearly disagreeing. Apparently, Utahime and Haibara had become certified love experts to him. They had apparently spent the entire evening dispensing relationship advice, and Sukuna had taken notes like a dedicated student.

“You know what?” Satoru continued, leaning back slightly. “I think it’s the opposite. You make sure the person is interested in you first. Then you kiss them.”

He didn’t even know why he was indulging this conversation. The last thing he wanted was Sukuna going around kissing random people just to “get their attention.” Not that Sukuna would do that, but who knows? The mere thought made something possessive and ugly flare inside him.

“So I can’t kiss you?”

For a moment, Satoru was fairly certain a volcano had erupted directly inside his skull. His entire world seemed to tilt on its axis. His mouth opened to form a reply, then closed again, his usual witty retort dying on his tongue. Not that Satoru against that idea, he wanted to kiss sukuna, but Sukuna didn't need to kiss Satoru just to get his attention. He needed to know that. Because without a kiss, Satoru was already giving him all his attention, did Sukuna really not see that?

“I’m sorry—what?” he asked, needing confirmation that he hadn’t hallucinated that.

“I want to kiss you.” No, that wasn't what Sukuna had said a second ago. Satoru was so sure it wasn't the same thing, but then again... was it?

And the way Sukuna said it casually. Like he was commenting on the weather. Like this was just another ordinary Tuesday and not a statement capable of short-circuiting Gojo Satoru’s entire nervous system.

Satoru just stared at him, stunned.

Of all the things in the world he wanted to do, kissing Sukuna ranked embarrassingly high on the list. It had been that way ever since the first time he’d seen Sukuna’s lips soften into something that wasn’t a rigid line. That night in the small alleyway where Sukuna’s favorite stray cat lived—the first time he had seen Ryomen Sukuna smile—he had wanted to know what they felt like. But, miraculously, his brain was still functioning. Satoru knew better. He swallowed, steadying himself. And even then, he wasn’t sure his self-control would survive it.

Sukuna was drunk.

Very drunk.

He might not even remember this tomorrow. Or worse, he might remember it clearly and regret it. Either option would complicate everything. And despite his many flaws, Satoru was not going to take advantage of this. Not like this. So, for perhaps the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru chose to be the wiser man.

“Hey.” Satoru swallowed hard. “Listen to me.” He took a breath and reached out, taking Sukuna’s hand. “You’re drunk. Your head is a mess, and so is this conversation. Maybe you’re a little confused about what happened today, I don’t know, but I won’t let you wake up tomorrow regretting this. I know you’d want the same if you were sober.” He took a deep breath. “So, here is what’s going to happen. You take this hangover pill, drink that water, and go to sleep. We’ll talk properly in the morning. Okay?”

Satoru had, of course, kissed many people. People he considered insignificant. Meaningless kisses that were just entertainment to blow off steam from college assignments. Kisses at his friends' parties, kisses at bars with people whose faces he immediately forgot, and other pointless encounters. Satoru didn't want Sukuna to be just another one of them.

Sukuna furrowed his brow and pouted, disagreeing with what Satoru had said. He was still staring at Satoru’s lips, sending shivers down Satoru’s spine. A cold sweat broke out on Satoru’s temples, he didn't know why he suddenly felt so hot, even though he’d taken his jacket off and the AC was running perfectly.

It was the longest minute of Satoru’s life, weighing whether to wait for Sukuna’s response, carry him to bed, or just leave him there. Because if he stayed for one more second, he knew he would break and do something they’d both regret tomorrow morning.

Then, without warning, Sukuna leaned in. Satoru, for some reason, froze, holding his breath instead of pulling away. Perhaps deep down, he wanted Sukuna to kiss him?

You are a monster, Satoru.

Be the better man. Be honorable. Move.

You have to move, Satoru. Do not let those soft, plump lips touch yours.

Do not let the devil win.

And the next thing he knew, Satoru closed his eyes. But a second later, he felt a warm, foul-smelling liquid spray across him.

Yes, Ryomen Sukuna did not kiss him, he vomited on him instead.

Karma was finally catching up to him. God was punishing him for all his sins. For all the hearts he’d broken and the games he’d played, especially with Sukuna.

Satoru kept holding his breath, not daring to inhale the air that would surely make his own stomach churn. He wiped the liquid from his face with his sleeve, biting back his frustration. The last thing he wanted was to scream at Sukuna and make things any worse between them.

If puking all over him made Sukuna feel better, then fine—he’d let the kid do it again.

When Satoru finally opened his eyes, he found Sukuna wearing the most heartbroken expression he had ever seen. His brows were pinched, his mouth downturned, and his lips trembled as he whispered apologies over and over. Keep saying sorry and tried to help Satoru clean the mess while at the same time he also tried to hold back the nausea.

“Okay. It’s okay. We need to get you to the bathroom. Now.” Satoru stood up, hauling Sukuna up by his armpits and rushing toward the en-suite bathroom in Sukuna's room. Sukuna’s left shoe was still dangling precariously from his foot. Satoru fumbled to flick on the lights, terrified they might trip over something in the dark.

He sat Sukuna down in front of the toilet, and without prompting, Sukuna vomited a second time. Then a third. Satoru stayed by his side, gently rubbing his back.

Ten minutes later, Sukuna was slumped weakly on the bathroom floor. Satoru stood at the far sink near the bathtub, splashing water on his face. His skin was clean now, but his clothes were a disaster. The stench was revolting. Satoru realized that if he didn't care for Sukuna as much as he did, if he weren't so completely far gone for Sukuna, he wouldn't have tolerated this from a soul. Anyone else would have been kicked out the door, but for Sukuna, he’d endure a thousand times worse.

Satoru walked back toward Sukuna after drying his face with some tissues, grabbing a few more to help clean Sukuna’s mouth, which was still messy from the vomit.

He stood over Sukuna with his hands on his hips, giving him a pointed look.

Sukuna was slumped against the wall beside the toilet, blinking rapidly as he tried to process the situation. He was clearly struggling to regain his strength after the most violent bout of vomiting he’d experienced in years. the price of staying away from alcohol for so long.

Finally, his gaze landed on Satoru standing before him. He took in the sight of Satoru Gojo in front of him. The man’s hair was damp and disheveled, his face was still slick with water, and his clothes... his clothes were a complete disaster. Satoru Gojo looked like a total mess. Like a drowned rat pulled from a sewer, smelling awful and soaking wet. That made something in Sukuna’s stomach flipped, and he let out a sudden giggle. Reminds him of those rats he saw on the alley when he fed his stray cats.

“Oh. You’re laughing now?” Satoru stepped closer.

He knelt once again in front of Sukuna, who was halfway between leaning and lying on the floor, still giggling at the sight of him. Satoru gently wiped Sukuna's mouth. “Come on,” he said, reaching out to help him sit up properly.

But Sukuna only laughed harder. The giggles spiraled into a full-blown fit of laughter, and he completely ignored Satoru’s hands trying to steady him. His body shook so violently that he lost his balance against the wall, ending up flat on his back on the bathroom floor. He clutched his stomach and chest, howling as if this were the funniest joke in existence. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Satoru Gojo looking this pathetic. For someone who usually looked like he stepped out of a magazine, seeing him covered in vomit was a masterpiece of a joke, and Sukuna couldn't stop howling.

“I’m glad my misery is so entertaining for you. But you know what? You don't look much better yourself. Take a look at yourself.” Satoru tugged at Sukuna’s puke-stained hoodie, trying to help him peel them off. This kid was a total wildcard when he was drunk. One second he was whining, the next he was on the verge of tears, then smiling, and now he was howling on the bathroom floor.

“At least I don’t look like a drowned rat,” Sukuna retorted, dissolving into another fit of laughter. He threw his head back, his hair falling away to reveal his forehead. His mouth was wide open, showing every tooth. Oh, yes Sukuna, you of all people certainly don't look like a drowned rat. Quiet the opposite, really. What e beautiful sight, laughing like that. And God, have some mercy, those slightly pointed canines will be the death of Satoru Gojo.

The sound of Sukuna boisterous laughter filled the bathroom that, just a few weeks ago, had been quiet and empty. Satoru’s heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough to rival the noise in the room. He could swear his pulse had migrated to his ears. This definitely wasn't good for his health.

Satoru found himself frozen in place once again. He drank in the sight—a side of Sukuna that he was certain even Yuuji hadn't seen in years. A strange sense of pride swelled in his chest, he was the one who had drawn this out of him. He didn’t care about the reason. If getting puked on or looking like a drowned rat was what it took to make Sukuna laugh like this, Satoru would do it a thousand times over just for this moment.

After fifteen minutes of simply sitting there and letting Sukuna laugh his heart out, Satoru decided it was time. As the laughter died down into exhausted breaths, he moved to help him.

“Come on. Let’s get these clothes off so you can sleep. Tomorrow morning, it’ll be my turn to laugh when you get the worst hangover of your life.” Satoru reached for the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie as the boy lay limp on the floor. The movement triggered a memory from the week before when Sukuna had a panic attack from his nightmare, hiding in this very bathroom. He pictured Sukuna in this exact spot, but with tears streaming down his face instead of that melodic laughter.

He found himself wishing that the absurdity of this moment was enough to wash away the traces of Sukuna’s breakdown. Satoru wanted to be the one to replace Sukuna's worst memories with something else. Even if that 'something' was just a ridiculous story about a ruined shirt or being a 'drowned rat'. Satoru was more than happy to play the fool.

Without even realizing it, Satoru managed to peel the hoodie off Sukuna’s body. The younger man was already half-asleep, likely exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the night.

“Come on, Sukuna. Can you change the rest yourself?” There was no answer. Sukuna was clearly out cold on the floor, his eyes closed in a peaceful slumber.

Without a second thought, Satoru scooped him up and carried him to the bed. At least Sukuna’s shirt and pants weren't too bad; he figured he could finish changing him on the bed, not the cold bathroom floor. 

The moment Sukuna hit the mattress, he started snoring softly. Satoru exhaled a sigh of relief and walked over to the closet to find some comfortable sleepwear. Before heading back, he stepped out to grab a fresh hangover pill; the one on the coffee table had been sitting out too long, and he wasn't about to risk giving him something that had gone stale.

Satoru returned with a pill and a glass of water, setting them on the nightstand. He grabbed a plain black t-shirt he’d left at the foot of the bed and did his best to maneuver Sukuna out of his puke-stained white shirt and into the clean black one.

In the middle of it, Satoru noticed Sukuna let out a tiny giggle every time his hand brushed the skin of Sukuna’s stomach. Of all the "cute" traits Sukuna could have, being ticklish was the last thing Satoru expected. How could someone who spent half his life scowling be so sensitive to a stray touch on his midriff?

As much as he wanted to tease him, Satoru decided to give him a pass this time. He was exhausted, and he knew Sukuna needed sleep more than another fit of giggles. His head would be splitting enough as it was tomorrow morning.

Satoru tried to steady his breathing and act natural because, of course, he wasn’t nervous about unbuttoning Sukuna’s jeans. He just wanted the kid to sleep comfortably, okay? And jeans were easily the most uncomfortable thing to sleep in. That was his only motivation for stripping them off; there was nothing weird about it. Nothing that should make his hands shake. Besides, the denim was stained, and it would probably irritate Sukuna's skin if left on all night.

Right? 

Satoru sent a silent prayer to whatever god was listening that Sukuna was wearing a boxer. His prayers were answered as he eased the jeans down, revealing a slender waist and the elastic waistband of a black striped boxer.

Sukuna squirmed and giggled in his sleep, feeling the fabric brush against his skin. Satoru held his breath, feeling like he’d been caught doing something scandalous. Once Sukuna settled back into a deep sleep, Satoru continued, carefully sliding the jeans past his hips and down his thighs. But just as the denim cleared the midpoint of Sukuna’s thighs, Sukuna let out a sharp whimper, as if he were in pain.

Satoru froze, terrified of hurting him. Very slowly, he tried to ease the jeans down again, but Sukuna let out another pained whimper.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Satoru whispered instinctively, his hands hovering mid-air. He checked for a stray button or something sharp in the pockets that might be catching on Sukuna’s skin, but he found nothing.

Nothing except for a scar on his thigh. No, not just one. There were dozens of them. Most looked like old, faded marks, but a few were angry, fresh, and still bright red. When Satoru squinted to focus, he could even see faint traces of dried blood.

For the umpteenth time that night, Satoru was paralyzed. He sat frozen at the edge of the bed, his eyes tracing the patterns on Sukuna’s skin. They looked like scratches—thin, straight lines that could only be left by a fingernail or… or a razor.

No, no, no. It couldn't be what he thought it was, right?

With painstaking care, Satoru finally managed to slide the jeans off, leaving Sukuna in nothing but his boxers which were short enough to leave the rest of his thighs exposed.

And there it was. Sukuna’s thighs were a map of scars. The new and the old were layered over one another; brown and red marks huddled together in a grim collage.

Satoru wanted to look closer—he needed a real answer so he wouldn't have to guess—but he was terrified. He was genuinely shaken by what he had just uncovered. He already felt like he was crossing a line by eavesdropping and undressing him tonight, but now, on top of that,  he had accidentally stumbled upon Sukuna’s self-harm scars.

No. There’s no way. Sukuna wouldn't do this to himself... would he?

​Satoru stood up and began fumbling through Sukuna’s discarded jeans, which were now lying in a heap at the foot of the bed. He was desperately searching for anything he might have missed. Anything that could explain the marks. But there was nothing. Even as he searched, the rational part of his brain knew that even if he found a stray object, it wouldn't explain the older scars. Those had clearly healed a long time ago.

​Satoru’s heart was hammering against his ribs again, but for an entirely different reason now. His palms were clammy, and his body seemed to move on its own. He bolted toward the bathroom, heading straight for the cabinet near the sink to look for the one thing he was terrified to find.

​Please, please, no razors, please. Satoru pleaded silently.

No cutters, nothing. He prayed there wouldn't be anything in the cabinet that would confirm his worst fears. He felt almost like a madman when he found nothing there. And he should have been relieved, but instead, he felt a fresh wave of dread. What if Sukuna had hidden them somewhere else?

​My God. What was he supposed to do now? He had just stumbled upon a secret he was never meant to know. But then again, since when did Satoru Gojo ever care about boundaries?

​Satoru stood in the doorway between the bathroom and Sukuna's bedroom. He stared at Sukuna’s sleeping face before his eyes drifted down to the scars on his thighs. Satoru remained silent for a long time, weighing his options. Should he put the jeans back on him? What if Sukuna realized Satoru knew about his secret? Wait, he thought, why didn't I notice this the first time he came over? He had even helped Sukuna change out of his wet clothes that rainy night.

​Satoru cursed himself for being so stupid and oblivious, for not being observant enough to catch something so important. But even if he had known earlier, what could he have actually done? He couldn't exactly tell Yuuji, could he? That would only make things worse. Sukuna would hate him even more. Still, Satoru wondered if he should bring it up with Sukuna. Sukuna deserved help, even if he wasn’t asking for it. If he just played dumb, things were bound to get worse. What if Sukuna decided to take a more extreme step? Satoru didn't even dare to imagine it.

​Time felt like it was dragging, until he finally moved to wake Sukuna just long enough to force him to drink some water and take the hangover pill he’d prepared earlier. Then, he made sure Sukuna was tucked in warm and comfortable, with not a single part of him exposed.

​Satoru went back to daydreaming beside the bed. He felt strangely hollow, as if he weren't really there. He couldn't stop staring at Sukuna’s thighs; the image of those old and new scars was burned into his memory. Even though they were hidden under the thick blanket, Satoru could still see them perfectly. He suspected the fresh wounds were only a few days old.

Wait, he realized, was it the day he had that nightmare? The day I was standing outside the door, talking about myself like an idiot?

Satoru rubbed his face roughly, pulling at his hair hard enough to ground himself. He couldn't afford to wrestle with his own guilt and forget that his focus needed to be on Sukuna. Indulging in his own feelings wouldn't help Sukuna one bit.

​Maybe tomorrow he would try to talk to him about it. Besides, he also had to discuss the group chat anyway, adding one more reason for Sukuna to hate him wasn't the end of the world. He just needed to do something to make up for all his mistakes. Right?

​Satoru’s gaze fell on the pile of papers on Sukuna’s desk, which he assumed were the files Atsuya had told Sukuna to finish ASAP. He sat down and tried to make sense of the documents, which were already covered in Sukuna’s red and blue scribbles. Satoru reached for the nearest pen on the desk and decided to add some black ink of his own. He hoped that every mark he made could mean something to Sukuna.

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