As promised, the next day, you accompanied Megumi and Yuji on a field trip to Harajuku to pick up their classmate. Yuji whistled a cheerful tune, his grin stretched ear-to-ear like sunshine breaking through clouds as he took in the colorful crowds. Megumi stalked ahead, his back rigid enough to serve as a ruler, radiating palpable don't-even-think-about-talking-to-me vibes.
Your little group stood out from the flamboyant Harajuku in your dark uniforms. Yuji happily slurped on an enormous rainbow-swirled ice cream cone while Megumi eyed the dripping colors and profusion of sprinkles with thinly veiled distaste.
Around you, tourists and brightly-clad fashionistas went about their lives, oblivious to the world of curses. An ordinary weekday as far as they knew. You hid a wistful smile, remembering when your own world was that small and bright with possibility.
"Here," Yuji offered with a grin, holding out the towering ice cream cone. "Want a bite, senpai?"
Before you could politely decline the generous if slightly slobbery offer, Megumi made a small, strangled sound of disgust.
"Itadori!" he hissed, visibly scandalized. "You can't just… offer people your half-eaten food!"
The tips of his ears had gone pink as he gestured sharply between you and the ice cream, attempting to communicate the sheer impropriety of the situation without actually saying the words "indirect saliva exchange."
"It's not half eaten!" Yuji protested, slightly wounded. "I've barely had a bite! There's, like… a whole other structural integrity of rainbow remaining. It's practically pristine."
As if on cue, an errant sprinkle landed squarely on Megumi's sleeve. He twitched, his nose wrinkling as he flicked it away.
"Alright, alright," you intervened, holding up your jumbo bag of marshmallows. "I've got my own supply of sugar. Thanks, though."
As much as you liked Yuji and frankly weren't that fussed by the concept of half-eaten food (given your long-standing agreement with Gojo regarding shared snacks), you had a distinct feeling pushing Megumi any further today would result in an explosion of epic grumpiness. He'd had it rough after his scuffle with Sukuna, and a day of enforced bed rest had undoubtedly amplified his natural baseline crankiness to truly impressive levels.
Yuji rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. His embarrassment, however, proved short-lived, as his attention snagged on something else.
"By the way," he piped up. "Why are there only three first-years? Isn't that, like… super small for a class?"
"Well," Megumi shrugged, not inclined to elaborate for the newbie, "have you ever met anyone else who can see curses?" He fixed Yuji with a look that implied the answer should be obvious. "That's how rare we are."
"Oh. Right. Guess so," Yuji nodded thoughtfully. "Is that why Spices is, like, the only third-year at our school?"
Yuji leaned toward you, eyes alight with innocent curiosity, having correctly deduced you were the most likely source of useful gossip and inside information. Megumi was allergic to superfluous chitchat. And Gojo's information was typically useless at best, dangerous at worst.
Since Yuji was new to the whole jujutsu thing, you supposed it was only fair to answer him truthfully.
"There used to be four of us," you explained, your voice quieter now. "We lost Shino on a mission, back in our first year."
A hollow ache blooming behind your ribs as you pictured Shino's easy smile, frozen forever at fifteen. Shoko had assured you, back then, that it would get better. You had little faith in that particular prognosis.
Ieiri Shoko was brilliant and arguably the single most knowledgeable person you knew, but however much you adored her, you just couldn't bring yourself to believe that it would ever get better. It never got better for her, after all. Why should you be any different? The ghosts just piled up, one after another.
You shook your head sharply, blinking back the sudden, hot sting of tears. One deep breath, then another. Inhale the smell of sugar and exhaust fumes. Exhale the ghost pressing against your ribs.
"Sorry," you mumbled, trying for a casual wave that ended up more like a twitch. "It's stupid to still get upset about it—"
You tried to brush it off, to stuff the grief back into its box, and were stopped short as Yuji's arm wrapped around your shoulders, turning you into his chest. His embrace was surprisingly grounding.
"I'm sorry, senpai. I didn't know," Yuji squeezed you tighter, his voice more mature than you thought possible. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
You let yourself be folded into Yuji's hug, comforted by his uncomplicated warmth. On your other side, Megumi wrung his hands, hovering uncertainly. His blue eyes shimmered with guilt as understanding sank in. It occurred to him, you could see it in his face, that he'd never thought to ask why you were the only third year. Too wrapped up in his own pain and problems, comforting others wasn't listed on his skill sheet.
"It's fine," you managed, drawing a shaky breath and forcing a watery chuckle. "Really. Then, last year… Well. Let's just say I got sent on a mission way above my pay grade. Almost died, too. Hakari lost his damn mind when one of the higher-ups called me 'acceptable collateral damage.' Things… escalated. Hakari has a bit of a temper, you see. He kicked their asses real bad. Kirara backed him up, obviously. So, yeah. They both got expelled. Now it's just me."
You leaned back from Yuji, though his arm remained loosely around you. Your thoughts drifted back to the day Hakari and Kirara had packed their bags. You wouldn't have called yourselves best friends, not exactly.
They were a unit, those two—powerful sorcerers with crazy cursed techniques and a grudge against the system. They were ride or die. You were… their other classmate. The unhinged, overly curious one with a foul mouth and a talent for property destruction.
Despite the differences, despite having next to nothing in common beyond mandatory shared training, they'd always looked out for you, especially after Shino's death. None of you ever spoke of it, that gaping hole she'd left, the guilt that gnawed at each of you for not being there.
In their own grief-stricken, aggressive way, Hakari and Kirara had taken it upon themselves to protect you—the runt of their pack. They made space for you always, insisting you spar together, taking turns explaining high-level concepts they mastered intuitively until the mechanics clicked for you too. They were there for you, watched your back. And they made damn sure you could hold your own when they weren't around.
You were far from surprised when Hakari, blunt as ever, had made the offer.
"Come with us, Spices," he'd said. "Screw this place. I don't wanna leave you here all alone with these assholes."
"I wouldn't be much use," you'd mumbled, picking at a loose thread on your uniform. "Not exactly the fight-club type, you know?"
Kirara nudged your shoulder teasingly. "You don't gotta fight. You can keep the books. Aren't you always rambling about saving up and retiring early? Can't get much earlier than quitting now, huh?"
"Yeah," Hakari nodded gruffly. "You got passion, Spices. Be a waste to let it rot here."
You'd considered the image of a different life. Running the books for Hakari's underground fight club empire. Freedom from the rigid rules, the constant threat of death hanging over every mission. Hakari was a force of nature; whatever he set his mind to, he achieved. It would be lucrative, certainly more profitable than being a mid-tier sorcerer waiting for the next inevitable tragedy.
A chance to get out, build something new, leave the ghosts and the regulations behind.
As you pictured walking away, Gojo's face flashed in your mind. Not the all-powerful, all-seeing god, but the man who sometimes let his guard down. His laughter during late-night board games, gentle fingers wiping off your tears, terrible jokes and over-the-top antics. Annoyingly persistent, relentlessly cheerful, yet kinder than you often felt you deserved.
You owed Gojo. A debt you couldn't easily quantify, but felt deeply nonetheless. He'd pulled you out of that hellhole, dusted you off, and given you a shot at this life. You knew he wouldn't hold it against you if you left. He'd crack a joke and encourage you if he thought it was what you truly wanted.
Yet you couldn't do it. Not to him. You just couldn't leave him, especially after everything that had happened that year. Not when you still hadn't really given this life your best shot.
So you shook your head, even as your hands clenched into fists and fresh tears welled up in your eyes. Hakari and Kirara didn't push. They both knew how stubborn you were. You might cry, you might complain, but once your mind was made up, you'd charge headfirst into whatever stupid decision you'd landed on, even through ugly tears and snot.
Hakari simply sighed. "Fine. But the offer stands. Come find us whenever you get tired of playing nice."
Kirara pulled you into a tight hug. "We got your back, Spices. Always. Don't you forget it."
You closed your eyes and hugged Kirara back with all your strength, perhaps for the last time in a long time, your heart overflowing and breaking simultaneously.
Yes, you would always remember that. No matter where your paths led. Wherever they went. Whoever you became.
The memory faded abruptly as the chaos of Harajuku Station came rushing back.
"Yo!" Gojo's cheery voice cut through the haze. "Thanks for waiting!"
You blinked. The sweet scent of your forgotten marshmallows mingled with perfume and food from passing commuters. Neon signs flickered at the periphery of your vision. Reality was reasserting itself.
"Looks like your school uniform made it on time!" Gojo zoomed over, clapping Yuji enthusiastically on the shoulder, an offensively sweet-looking drink clutched in his other hand.
"Yup! Perfect fit!" Yuji grinned, tugging proudly at the red hood attached to his new jacket. "Though it's different from Fushiguro's. It's got a hood! Which is awesome!" He looked utterly pleased with this small deviation from the standard issue.
"School uniforms can be customized upon request," Gojo explained airily between noisy slurps of his beverage.
"For real?" Yuji's eyes widened. "So that's why Spices-senpai's uniform looks so cool!"
He wasn't wrong. Instead of the standard jacket, you rocked a rather fetching cropped double-breasted blazer paired with flattering high-waisted trousers. You might spend most of your waking hours buried in dusty tomes about obscure curse lore, but that didn't mean you couldn't appreciate a well-tailored outfit.
"Yes, it does," you chuckled, grateful for the sudden shift in topic.
"And all these fabulous customizations," Gojo continued, puffing out his chest, "are entirely possible thanks to the mad bonuses I rake in for the school. Perks of being the strongest sorcerer, you know." He flashed a blindingly smug grin.
"Ooh, really? That's awesome!" Yuji breathed, looking suitably impressed.
"Yup!" Gojo preened. "In fact, I personally helped pick out Spices' uniform too. I have, as you may have noticed, impeccable fashion sense."
You snorted loudly at that blatant lie. The day you sought fashion advice from Gojo Satoru would be the day Cthulhu rose from the depths to attend a tea party. The man wore the exact same black outfit every single day; you were half-convinced he owned twenty identical sets.
Nevertheless, Yuji looked thoroughly captivated. "Wow! Do you really help everyone customize their uniforms, Gojo-sensei?" he asked earnestly.
"But of course!" Gojo declared, bestowing upon you an exaggerated wink. "It's a tough job but someone's gotta do it. The students would be lost without my keen aesthetic eye."
Keen? This, from the man who once tried to convince you that neon pink and puke-green stripes were a sophisticated combination? Still, you let it slide. It was far too amusing watching Yuji hang onto Gojo's every ridiculous word like they were pearls of profound wisdom.
Gojo was about to launch a full speech into his alleged fashion prowess when a commotion broke out across the street. A girl with short, fiery brown hair was waving angrily as a sleazy-looking model scout attempted to chat up a taller, distinctly unimpressed woman.
"Hey, you! What about me?" the girl demanded, her sharp tone echoing off the surrounding buildings. Her angular features seemed to sharpen further with annoyance. "You're looking for models, right? Take a look at this!"
The scout visibly withered under her aggressive onslaught, while the taller woman seized the opportunity to make a hasty escape into the crowd.
"Oof. How embarrassing," Yuji muttered around a mouthful of rapidly melting ice cream, shaking his head.
Megumi shot him a lethal side-eye. "Look who's talking," he grumbled, pointedly glaring at the oversized, sparkly sunglasses perched precariously on Yuji's head.
Before Yuji could retort (likely with something equally oblivious and nonsensical), Gojo cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Hey! Over here!"
The fiery girl whipped around at his voice, her scowl instantly replaced by a broad grin. She bounced toward your group, radiating an almost alarming level of chaotic energy.
She struck a well-practiced pose, planting a hand firmly on her hip, chin tilted defiantly.
"The name's Kugisaki Nobara," she announced. "Consider yourselves lucky. You get to hang out with a girl like me!"
You stifled a laugh. Oh, this one was going to be a handful. You could already tell.
"I'm Itadori Yuji," Yuji said, his smile wide enough to qualify as a public health hazard. "And I'm from Sendai!" His friendliness, as always, knew no bounds and apparently had zero concept of stranger danger.
"Fushiguro Megumi," Megumi said flatly, hands jammed in his pockets—the exact manner he used to introduce himself to you all those months ago. Consistency, you had to give him that.
Nobara took one look at them and sighed, a gusty exhale of profound disappointment. She sized up Yuji as if suspecting him of still eating his boogers well past an acceptable age. When her gaze landed on Megumi, you got the distinct impression she was picturing him gleefully setting seagulls on fire for funsies. Her internal jury seemed to have reached a swift and unfavorable verdict on both counts.
Then, her sharp gaze landed on you. Having finished assessing the boys and finding them both lacking, she turned her full attention your way.
"What about you?" Nobara tilted her head, assessing. "Not gonna introduce yourself? Too cool for school already?"
Up close, you took in the details. Her eyes were a rich, molten orange shade like spilled honey in sunlight, framed by long, feathery lashes. Vivid irises stood out against smooth ivory skin and elegantly arched eyebrows a shade darker than her dyed hair. An air of ambition not yet directed. Of hunger for… something more.
Her brassiness bounced off you harmlessly. You offered your name with a soft smile. And then you added, "I'm actually a third-year." A senpai, technically, though the title felt increasingly absurd the longer you stayed in this clown school.
At that, Nobara stepped right up into your personal space, eyes narrowing as she leaned in disconcertingly close. Close enough you could smell the faint scent of hairspray and something vaguely floral.
"Hmm," she murmured, her gaze sweeping over you. "Neat hair. Clear skin," she nodded approvingly, her fingers flicking the collar of your blazer. "You smell nice, too. Kind of… woodsy."
Heat crept up your neck as her fingertips grazed your skin. Ah, another one with no sense of personal space.
"Why are your compliments so aggressive?" you managed, surprised into a chuckle.
Nobara simply stared into your eyes, unblinking. You calmly held her gaze, ignoring the strange butterflies performing aerial acrobatics in your chest. The air felt charged.
After a beat that stretched just a little too long, Nobara's lips curved into a smirk. "Well, you seem cooler than these sad sacks, at least!"
She laughed then, a loud, unapologetic sound, and grabbed your arm. Again, you found yourself helplessly tracing the colorful sweep of her hair, the upturned curve of her lips. Magnetic wasn't quite the right word. Gravitational, perhaps.
That was… odd.
You knew you could be impulsive, prone to hyper-focusing on irrelevant details at the worst possible moments, but you'd never felt such a bizarre, overwhelming urge to reach out and trace the curve of someone's mouth with your thumb before. Weird. Definitely weird.
It was the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat that finally broke the spell. You glanced up to see Gojo watching the two of you, eyebrow raised and a way too delighted grin spreading across his stupidly handsome face. He'd definitely caught your momentary fluster. Next to him, Yuji blinked wide cinnamon eyes between you and Nobara in innocent bewilderment, head tilted like a puzzled puppy at the odd tension.
But on Gojo's other side… Megumi's gaze had narrowed, zeroing in on Nobara's proprietary grip on your arm. The paintbrush-stroke eyebrows you'd teased him about just yesterday drew together sharply. Some shadow flickering through his expression that could almost be jealousy? Displeasure? It passed too quickly to define before his standard impassive mask slid back into place.
"Well now!" Gojo clapped, mischief dripping from every word. "Seems my precious students are getting along marvelously already, hmm?"
You shot him a warning look that promised swift and painful retribution involving lost snacks and embarrassing photos leaked to the student body, but the damage was done. Oh yes. You were never going to hear the end of this. The teasing would be relentless, creative, and utterly unbearable. Your life was forfeit.
Fortunately for your immediate social standing, Gojo had something else in mind.
"We finally have everyone together!" he exclaimed brightly. "And two of you are newbies to the wonders of Tokyo! Therefore… It's time for a tour!"
Just like that, Nobara and Yuji fell for it—hook, line, and sinker. They clung to Gojo excitedly, all bright grins and starry eyes, babbling over each other about all the trendy spots they wanted to visit. Shibuya Crossing! Takeshita Street! That place with the owl cafe!
Such touching innocence. Such predictable gullibility.
Which was how you all ended up standing in front of a decidedly un-trendy, very much haunted-looking abandoned building on the outskirts of somewhere not a tourist spot. Gojo had declared it was a "test," a fun little team-building exercise, so you and Megumi dutifully hung back while a furious Nobara and an uncertain-looking Yuji marched toward the dilapidated entrance, armed with hammer, fists, and righteous indignation.
Like the good little background character you were, you plopped down onto a convenient stone block, shaking your legs out as you settled in to wait. Let the protagonists do their thing. You had marshmallows to contemplate.
Nobara hadn't been impressed with Yuji at first glance, and her opinion had plummeted further when Megumi oh-so-helpfully mentioned the whole 'eating a mummified finger' incident.
Yeah, they'd definitely gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe this forced proximity would help them bond? Or at least, learn to tolerate each other's existence without resorting to grievous bodily harm. They were going to be spending a lot of time together in classes and on missions. Best not to be actively plotting your partner's demise during crucial moments.
Perhaps, you mused, while they were in there, facing down some ghoulies, they'd discover a shared interest? Like complaining about Gojo? Hitting things violently? Maybe they'd save each other's lives in a dramatic fashion. Sparks would fly—literal cursed energy sparks, probably, but also… other sparks? They'd become besties, rivals, maybe even… fall hopelessly in love amidst the chaos and decay…
You smiled dreamily to yourself, your mind already busily drafting the third chapter of their enemies-to-friends-to-lovers romance arc, complete with dramatic confessions in the rain and misunderstandings fueled by poor communication.
Okay. That was probably getting ahead of things. You forcibly reigned in your overactive imagination, which had a tendency to gallop off into wildly inappropriate territory at the slightest provocation. There wasn't enough time for a full romance arc anyway. You'd settle for them emerging from the building without any hammer-shaped dents in Yuji. That seemed like a reasonable, achievable goal for their first day.
Megumi sat down next to you, unaware of the intense internal struggle you were waging against your own brain. He regarded the crumbling building with a frown, then turned to you.
"How many?" he asked quietly.
As a jujutsu sorcerer, of course, Megumi could sense the cursed energy radiating from the building. But pinning down the exact number and nature of the curses from that amorphous blob of negativity required sending in his shikigami. Reading curses from afar was more your niche.
"Three, I think," you replied, squinting more out of habit than necessity. You weren't seeing the cursed energy so much as tasting it on the back of your metaphorical tongue. "All grade four… maybe one pushing lower grade three at best. Nothing too nasty."
Such low-level fodder wouldn't pose a problem for any sorcerer. Even newbies should be able to handle them, provided they didn't panic and accidentally set fire to themselves.
Megumi still looked worried, his gaze fixed on the building's grimy entrance. He clearly wanted to keep an eye on Yuji, make sure the boy didn't accidentally swallow any more cursed artifacts. But this test wasn't about Yuji. It was about Nobara.
"That guy, Yuji," Gojo had explained, poking at his own forehead. "He's got a few screws loose up here. He wasn't raised in this world, didn't grow up knowing about curses. Just an average high school student. But he took it all in stride. Doesn't hesitate at all."
It was a well-known fact in the jujutsu world: one didn't get very far as a sorcerer if they weren't at least a little bit bonkers. Complete sanity was generally considered a liability.
So, you both understood what Gojo was really doing here. He wanted to see how crazy Kugisaki Nobara was. If she was cut out for this job, if she had the necessary madness to face the horrors ahead and keep fighting.
Megumi glanced at you, his voice light. "Didn't you awaken your abilities pretty late, too? Around Itadori's age?"
"A bit earlier than him," you nodded, stuffing a marshmallow into your mouth. "But yeah. Late bloomer."
You saw your first curse when you were fourteen. Geriatric, by sorcerer standards. Kids with innate techniques, like Megumi, usually started seeing things around five or six. Even those without a built-in gimmick tended to catch on earlier than their mid-teens.
To be fair, you should have known something was fundamentally wrong with your perception of reality. Ever since you were very young, you'd had this… feeling. An internal sensor for bad places and people, even though your eyes couldn't pick up anything unusual. A prickling sensation crawling up your spine, warning you to steer clear of a certain shadowed alleyway, a strangely quiet room, or that one antique doll your great-aunt insisted on displaying.
Bad juju. That's what you'd called it then. You'd learned to trust your gut, detour around the creepy spots, and mostly, it'd kept you out of trouble. Until the day it didn't. Until the day the bad juju got teeth.
"Did Gojo-sensei put you to the crazy test, too?" Megumi asked, seeming determined to excavate your backstory now that the opportunity presented itself.
It wasn't like you were hiding anything. Your past just didn't make for great small talk.
Gojo laughed heartily, clapping a heavy arm onto your shoulder. "Oh, that wasn't necessary!" he crowed, pawing at your face. "Back then, your dear senpai here was already certified insane."
Megumi frowned, clearly assuming Gojo was making one of his tasteless jokes. What you said next, however, made him freeze.
"The term is clinically diagnosed," you corrected Gojo flatly, batting his hand away.
The statement was delivered with matter-of-factness, devoid of any expected shame or discomfort. Megumi blinked. Once. Twice. Then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"You two," he muttered. "Your stupid jokes are getting old."
"No, no," Gojo wheezed, trying and failing to stifle another wave of laughter. "Seriously… Hah… I literally plucked Spices out of an asylum."
"A mental health facility," you snapped, pinching Gojo's arm where it rested on your shoulder, annoyed at having to correct him twice in under a minute.
You felt his Infinity flicker and dissipate beneath your fingers as he magnanimously allowed you your small act of vengeance. How very considerate. You pinched harder, twisting for good measure.
"Ow! Okay, okay, facility!" Gojo yelped, yanking his hand back and rubbing the bruised spot.
Megumi looked between you and Gojo, sheer panic blooming in his eyes. You couldn't blame him. He'd just discovered his slightly odd but generally functional senpai was actually Certified Insane©. You wouldn't know what to say either.
Just as the silence had stretched too thin, a curse flew out of the building's broken window. It screeched for approximately half a second, then promptly combusted into a sad little puff of ash.
Gojo chuckled, dusting off his hands. "Good. She's plenty crazy."
You stood up and stretched your legs. You might be the only one present with a formal diagnosis, but that didn't mean your friends, or your sensei for that matter, were operating with a full deck either. There was a certain comfort in that, you supposed. Company in collective insanity.
With the craziness test officially concluded (Nobara passed with flying colors), Yuji and Nobara emerged, demanding sustenance. Sushi. Steak. The expensive kind. Understandably. They'd faced their mortality (sort of) and deserved premium protein.
Gojo, predictably, tried to cheap out. "Ah, well, you see," he began, flashing a shameless grin and starting to siddle away. "Something urgent just came up. You kids have fun, text me the bill—"
He severely underestimated your strategic capabilities.
"That's perfectly fine, sensei," you smiled sweetly, holding up his sleek, black, unlimited-funds credit card between two fingers. "You go handle your urgent business. I'll take them."
"Eh?" The grin slid right off Gojo's face, replaced by sputtering confusion.
Gojo was a master tactician, unparalleled in combat. But you were the strategist. Cursed with an overactive brain that spent most of its time plotting ten steps ahead. Perks of being a world-class overthinker.
The moment he'd switched off his Infinity to let you administer that punitive pinch, you'd smoothly relieved him of his wallet's most valuable asset. Call it foresight. Call it petty theft. It proved to be an exceedingly wise move. Always pays to be prepared for Gojo's attempts at shirking responsibility.
Nobara was the first to catch on. She latched onto your arm, cooing dramatically, "Let's go, senpai~!"
Yuji immediately took your other arm, his laughter was infectious, "You're the best, Spices!"
Megumi scrunched his nose, a valiant effort to maintain his curated image of perpetual crankiness, though he was already walking ahead with a bunch of food review pages pulled up on his phone.
You steered your delighted charges away, Gojo's pilfered credit card held aloft like a tiny flag of victory. You could hear him muttering petulantly behind you.
"You and your sticky fingers, Spices."
You knew he wasn't really upset. A quiet chuckle followed the complaint, warm and familiar. "Honestly," he sighed, falling into step behind your merry band. "I spoil you far too much."
Yes, you do, sensei. You thought fondly.
Who else was he going to spoil, anyway? It wasn't like he had many options left.