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Beginning of Chapter
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Location: Kamino Ward, Japan.
Korihoo surfaced from unconsciousness slowly.
Not with panic, not yet, but with a strange, hollow clarity, as if his mind had awakened before his body agreed to follow. Slowly, awareness returned first. Sensation crept in after.
Then the pain came.
It rolled through him in a heavy, suffocating wave, dragging a painful groan from his throat.
His vision instantly blurred, the moment he opened his eyes, by the harsh glare of a white surgical light suspended above him.
He tried to lift himself, to roll to his side, anything, but his body refused to move as if something held him down.
"W-where am I..." he said with a hoarse voice as his sight gradually returned, the details of his situation assembled themselves piece by piece.
A heart monitor pulsed beside him with its steady electronic rhythm being breaking the through the silence. Metal stands lined the room, surgical instruments arranged on top of them carefully with precision.
Stainless steel trays reflected the light in cold flashes. Nearby, clear electrical wires coiled around equipment like transparent veins, connected to large tubes contained murky fluids and, disturbingly, shapes that looked far too organic to ignore.
The floor beneath everything was tiled in white, though the color had long since faded. Streaks of dried blood filled the cracks and spaced between tiles, dulled into a deep reddish brown against the porcelain.
Dirt clung stubbornly to the places where careless boots had tracked it in.
The air smelled sterile and rotten at once antiseptic struggling to mask something far older and far worse. It was an operating theater, and a laboratory at the same time.
'Shit... what is that smell...' He thought to himself. The stench in the air was unbearable, chemical antiseptic layered over something sour and decayed.
It clung to the back of Korihoo's throat, mote than thick enough to taste. After a few minutes, Korihoo forced himself to look down.
Cold metal pressed against his chest. Thick restraints pinned his wrists and ankles to an operating table, the steel cutting into his skin. He wore nothing but a thin hospital gown, the fabric useless against the chill of the room.
His breathing quickened as panic finally arrived promptly rose in him. "Where the Hell am I?! Who did this to me!" He yelled out as strained against the straps, muscles screaming in protest as the bindings refused to budge and pain seering in his body as they cut aginst his skin.
The table rattled beneath him, metal clanging against metal in sharp, frantic bursts. He nearly went on for a full minute before he calmed down and gave a forced chuckle. "Im such a dumbass... Forgot I had quirk." He sighed a breath of relief.
Hes been in such situations before, although this specific one was a first. "Just need to freeze these cuffs. Even if its metallic, rapid cooling will weaken it." He said to himself, a slight smirk appearing on his face.
He focused, drawing on instinct, reaching for the familiar cold that always answered him... yet nothing came.
No chill in the air, no crystallizing frost along his fingertips, no surge of powers of ice.
Only emptiness.
His chest tightened. 'What the fuck?!' He thought to himself, his breathing becoming shallow as panic once again returned. "Help! What the hell is going on?!" he shouted, his voice cracking.
The room swallowed the sound and returned it in echoes, his ragged breathing, the violent rattle of metal, and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.
Suddenly a door opened to his far right. The hinge creaked softly as footsteps followed measured, unhurried.
Korihoo's head snapped towards the sound as he shouted, "Hey! Hey! Help me! Where am I?! I can get you as much cash as you need–!" His priorities shifted as he paused, "... What did you do to me?! Why cant I use mt damn quirk?!"
Then a voice, low and composed. "Calm down, Korihoo."
Korihoos breath hitched mid pull as the struggling stopped. Relief flooded him so quickly it was almost painful. "R-Ryomen," he stammered, swallowing hard. "You need to help me. I cant feel my quirk... I-i'm sorry. I'm sorry I failed, but you have to—" he kept rambling on as Ryomen stepped fully into the light.
He moved without hurry, hands loosely at his sides, posture relaxed as if entering a quiet office rather than a room that reeked of blood and fear. He approached the table and stopped beside it, looking down at the restrained man with unreadable eyes.
"Korihoo," he said evenly, resting a hand against the edge of the metal slab. "Relax." He leaned back against the table as if settling in for a casual conversation. "We need to talk."
Korihoo drew in a shaky breath, preparing to speak but Ryomen moved faster than thought.
Suddenly metal flashed and in the next moment the barrel of a handgun was forced between Korihoo's teeth, cold steel pressing down on his tongue. Korihoo gagged as Ryomen shoved the handgun in his mouth.
"No speaking," Ryomen said calmly. "I'm not in a good mood. And I don't mind killing you now. Garaki will be disappointed he doesn't get a live specimen… but I'm sure he'll adapt if you piss me off enough." he gave a small shrug, casual as ever.
"You've served your usefulness." Korihoo's body went rigid at those words. The metallic taste filled his mouth, bitter and even suffocating. Tears welled in his eyes as the reality of the situation settled over him with crushing weight.
He did not want to die. The fear was primal, pure and humiliating. It stripped away pride, history, excuses. It left only instinct.
Ryomen adjusted his grip slightly. "Here's how this works," he continued, voice almost conversational.
"I'll ask question You'll nod or shake your head. Nothing else. No talking. Do you accept?" The tone made it obvious this was not a request.
Korihoo nodded as much as the gun would allow. "Good." Ryomen's eyes studied him for a moment, as if assessing livestock. "You see," he said softly, "we are both grown men. We can have a respectable conversation."
A pause.
"Did you give any information about me to the police? Or the HPSC?" Korihoo shook his head carefully, terrified of brushing the trigger. Ryomen watched him carefully then gave a small nod of approval. "Good. I'm glad you didn't."
He slowly pulled the gun from Korihoo's mouth but did not lower it and even then Korihoo did not dare to speak a word.
"Now, Korihoo," he went on evenly, "I would like to thank you for your service. The money you've provided over the years has been… helpful." He cocked the gun.
The sound echoed sharply in the sterile room. "But I'm afraid I'll have to let you go." Ryomen said in a casual tone with a shrug. Panic returned in violent waves. Korihoo began shaking again, muffled pleas spilling from his lips despite the warning.
The restraints rattled as he struggled against them as Ryomen smiled faintly. "Korihoo," he said almost fondly, "do you remember the very first job I gave you? Over a decade ago?"
Korihoo nodded weakly, his body trembling against the restraints. He tried again to summon his Quirk again, tried to reach for that familiar surge of cold but the effort was like grasping at smoke. Nothing answered him.
Ryomen tilted his head back slightly, studying the surgical light overhead. A quiet chuckle escaped him before his gaze returned to the man strapped beneath him.
"I asked for sixty percent of whatever you stole," he said lightly, as if recalling a minor business transaction. "And I asked you to eliminate a specific target and Id give you a very generous... Reward with my partner, as long as you keeping your life. You assured me it would be simple. Routine even."
His eyes sharpened. "And yet you failed." The words landed without volume, but they carried weight. "I beat you within an inch of your life for that," Ryomen continued. "You remember." He smiled faintly, not wide, not wild, just enough to show satisfaction.
And Korihoo remembered. The sound of bones cracking.
Fingers forced backward until they no longer bent. The taste of blood and bile mixing in his throat. Even now, more than a decade later, the memory clawed its way up from somewhere deep and buried.
Nightmares had never truly left him. He still woke some nights convinced he could hear his own joints splintering. "I told you to kill the white-haired boy," Ryomen said, yet with each word his voice lost its amusement. "And instead, you killed the woman."
A pause.
"I said kill my excuse of a son," he continued quietly, "and you eliminated the only person in that house whose Quirk I actually needed." The air in the room seemed to thin.
"Do you understand how valuable she was?" His eyes darkened. "Because of your mistake, I was left with a child who couldn't produce what I required.
A failed investment... or so I thought, but the point still stands." His tone cooled further. "And all because you couldn't follow a simple instruction."
Korihoo shook violently, tears streaming down his face. He tried to speak, to explain, to beg, to remind Ryomen over the years the successful bargins and exchanges they've had, that should of clearly made his past mistakes nothing anymore.
Yet he didnt know he ruined his plan. He ruined a certain demons plan as well. All because he couldnt remember who to kill.
Ryomen pulled out the magazine from the gun, ensuring it was loaded before he shoved it back in and pointed it back at Korihoo. Korihoo sucked in a desperate breath. "Sukuna, I—"
The gun was once again forced back between his teeth. "Careful," Ryomen said softly. "You're interrupting." His expression held no anger now. Only disappointment.
"You don't know the embarrassment I endured," Ryomen said quietly, almost reflectively. "Standing before my partner as I told him the plan was a failure… bloodied, humiliated. He left me worse than I left you. Because I failed." He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as though savoring a distant memory.
The only sound in the room was Korihoo's uneven sobbing and the steady electronic pulse of the heart monitor.
When Ryomen opened his eyes again, whatever faint trace of reflection had been there was gone.
"I won't kill you," he said. Korihoo's body stilled, a slight feeling of relief, that only disappeared after Ryomens next words. "Garaki needs you alive.
Preferably conscious when he begins harvesting." A small chuckle escaped him. "He dislikes working with spoiled materials."
Ryomen withdrew the gun from Korihoo's mouth. Air rushed into Korihoo's lungs as if he had been drowning. "Wait wait! Sukuna! You can't do this, I'll fix it, I'll–"
The gun came down hard against the crown of his head. The crack of metal against bone echoed sharply in the sterile room. Korihoo's words cut off mid breath as his body went slack against the restraints, unconscious.
Ryomen straightened slowly. He stepped back from the table, rolling his shoulder once as if easing a minor stiffness.
The gun dangled loosely from his fingers before he tossed it aside. It struck the tiled floor with a hollow metallic clatter and slid beneath a tray of surgical instruments.
For a moment, he simply stood there, staring down at the motionless man. "I wonder how Shigaraki and All For One's call is progressing," he murmured to himself.
He walked toward the door, his footsteps unhurried. "He'll come for me eventually," he continued, more thoughtful now.
"He's predictable like that." His lips curled upward. "I'll draw him into the city. Far from here. Far from anything that matters."
The grin widened, not wild, not frantic, but deliberate. "Jogo… your flames will make a splendid addition." He paused at the doorway, glancing back once at the dim surgical room, at the strapped figure beneath the glaring light.
"I must admit," Sukuna said softly, "I'm looking forward to this." Then he stepped out, the door sliding shut with a quiet, final hiss.
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Meanwhile in other city...
The mall was silent. Not the peaceful stillness of a building after closing hours, but the suffocating kind. The kind that felt staged. Manufactured even perhals.
The lights were still on. Escalators hummed softly. Promotional banners hung undisturbed above polished tile floors. Yet the absence of civilian noise turned every mechanical sound into something unnatural.
Police units had secured the perimeter outside. Inside, however, control had to fought for to belonged to the heroes. The operation had been carefully structured simple in design, dangerous in execution.
At Burnin's request, the force would divide.
The two sidekicks would secure the main floor perimeter. Burnin herself would advance upward with Manual and Iron Wall, accompanied by a SWAT unit and specialized officers trained in bomb detection.
They would sweep each level methodically, storefronts, maintenance corridors, storage rooms and clearing any unidentified individuals and neutralizing potential explosive threats.
No rushed engagements. No chaotic heroics but hopefully precision. Meanwhile, Gojo and Kaminari had been assigned the far more volatile role. They were the spark.
Their objective was simple, distract the main hostile group. Immobilize them if possible. Force them into positions where snipers and pro heroes, waiting for a clean opportunity, could eliminate the threat if containment failed.
It was controlled risk at least on paper. On the first floor near the central escalator, Gojo levitated a few inches above the tiled ground, as if gravity were optional. His hands rested casually in his pockets. His posture was relaxed almost bored.
Anyone unaware of the situation might have mistaken him for a bystander waiting for a store to open. Kaminari stood beside him, gripping a metal support pole so tightly his knuckles had begun to pale. He forced himself to breathe, slow in, slow out. Trying to steady the nerves and panic in his body.
"So," he whispered, barely moving his lips, "what's the plan? We're the distractions. What exactly are we doing?" Gojo turned his head slightly, then slipped his phone from his pocket. The screen's glow reflected faintly against the polished tile as he angled it toward Kaminari.
A live security feed filled the display. Sixteen men dressed in black tactical gear occupied the center of the first floor. Most carried rifles, weapons resting comfortably in practiced grips. Their formation wasn't disciplined, but it wasn't careless either, clustered around a large group of hostages forced face down on the ground.
The hostages' hands were bound. Several were shaking and one of the gunmen paced. Gojo hummed thoughtfully as he spoke.
"Well," he began quietly, lowering his voice further, "the plan is simple. We distract them. The teams clear the upper levels. Burnin, Manual, and... Um... oh yeah Iron Wall, that's the name. They take their positions with SWAT. Once they're ready, snipers get their angles and—"
"Yeah, yeah," Kaminari cut in under his breath, irritation sharpening his whisper. "Long story short, we distract them, they reposition, and the snipers handle it because these idiots sent five men upstairs instead of evenly spreading their forces." He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"The question is," he continued, stressing each word carefully, "what kind of stunt are we pulling to distract sixteen. Armed. Criminals." He glanced at Gojo expectantly.
Gojo stared at the phone for another second before locking the screen and sliding it back into his pocket. He scratched his chin, genuinely contemplative.
Seconds passed.
Then he smirked, he tapped the side of his head lightly. "My good man," he whispered proudly, "I have no fucking clue."
Kaminari stared at him blankly. The hum of the escalator motor filled the silence between them.
"I'm going to die," Kaminari muttered. Gojo tilted his head with a grin and replied, "Unlikely." Kaminari followed almost immediately withba response, "That's not reassuring."
Gojo waved off Kaminari's quiet spiral of dread and continued forward, steps unhurried, posture loose. He reached the corner of a storefront and leaned just enough to peer around it.
The scene matched the live feed perfectly. Sixteen men in black tactical gear. Rifles drawn and hostages forced to the floor in the open center of the atrium, hands bound, heads down.
One of the gunmen barked something impatiently at a man who had dared to shift. Gojo with drew slowly from the corner.
'He's right' he admitted to himself. 'The hostages complicate things. What was Burnin thinking we could do...' Gojo thought to himself.
A direct engagement would escalate instantly, a single stray bullet, panic, retaliation, casualties.
They needed noise but a controlled noise. 'If they fire at me and Infinity blocks it… they might panic and start targetting Kaminari or the hostages.'His jaw tightened slightly. 'Or worse recognize me from the festival.'
That would definitely shift this from hostage containment to ego driven violence.
He inhaled sharply as he thought to himself. Looking around him, lookijg into the glass windows of the stalls as mirrors to see the plaza.
'Damn it...' he thought to himself. 'Maybe blue? Maybe... fuck i dont have anything for crowd control...' he looked around them, when his eyes landed on Kaminari. Suddenly an idea clicked into place.
"Hey," Gojo said quietly, leaning a bit closer. "That new ability you mentioned earlier. The one you've been experimenting with. How good are you with it?"
Kaminari blinked, caught off guard. "Uh... what?" Gojo rolled his eyes as he continued, "The one you said Momo helped you conceptualize."
"Ohh." Kaminari rubbed the back of his neck, faint embarrassment creeping into his expression. "That. I mean… it kind of works? I dont see how it helps here, sure it makes me–" Gojo shook his head lightly. "Not that one. The other one, the one you said you tested out."
Kaminari's eyes sharpened as he realised which ability he meant. Silence settled between them as the idea formed fully in his mind. "I'd have to touch them first," he said, voice lowering and serious.
The nerves were still there, but something steadier was rising underneath. "Then I can channel the discharge through a somewhat direct contact instead of blasting the whole area."
He glanced toward the feed on Gojo's phone. "I'd to make contact with them though like I said" His posture straightened. His grip on the metal pole loosened not from fear, but focus as he looked bqck at Gojo.
"I can do it," he said, more firmly now. "But how are we getting to them Satoru?."
Gojo's smile widened, not the usaul mocking or careless but genuine. "Don't worry about that. So how's your pain tolerance by the way?"
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End of Chapter
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