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. Sukuna never noticed—or maybe he did, and he 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