DUST ┄《 gojo s. x oc. 》

五.

"Damn it, Shoko," uttered the white-haired feline, who's been searching for Shoko and Yin's traces at the vague location he memorised off the paper, "where could you guys be?"

Twirling between nimble fingers was a chunky phone, its pixelated screen displaying the text conversation between him and his brunette peer, who was a lot more simplistic in their responses. Ultimately, he was left on read upon his nosiness being too time-consuming and Shoko being too busy to give him a damn. With that, the phone would zap close in a 'beep'.

Alleys upon alleys, he wandered and trekked, unable to pinpoint an exact location thanks to the curse's energy being scattered everywhere. Oddly, he could barely find any energy reminiscent to the little he felt yesterday, permeating in her hand. However, the traces alone told him plenty — the curse had to be running around.

Was it trying to misguide them? Chase them down? Or... was it being chased down?

Nonetheless, it wasn't the handiwork of someone who could lock the strongest student in place like a lapdog. Maybe, her technique is illusionary. It could explain why his prior bizarre experience, and the cursed target's relentless running. Could they still be chasing it down?

If it was illusionary, then it might somewhat make sense for her to be a grade 4 sorcerer.

Index finger and thumb supporting his chin, Gojou would glide past the gaps in the crowd. Long strides would almost appear as though he was swimming through an ocean filled by exhausted office workers and drained regular students. Amongst breathless groans and fawning murmurs regarding the handsome boy was a crisp whistling, sharing a melody no one else really knows, breathing a tune that belonged only to him.

It was impossible to be unnoticed when you're physically characterised by white locks, ocean eyes and an abnormally tall height in a place where brunettes and ravenettes were predominant hair colours and their crowns are the only thing you really see in a crowd. Even harder to be unnoticed when you're awfully gleeful and feverish while everyone else is holding onto a thread.

But, hell, if Gojou Satoru doesn't find anymore useful leads to the duo, he might also be hanging on a thread.

A voice he knows he won't remember within the next hour or so rung behind him, asking the age-old question about what his digits were. To which, he responds almost too reflexively and too eagerly, fingers tapping in a number he has never even seen before. The cover on the flip phone is cute though, he will say.

After so much searching, he supposes a little distraction couldn't hurt much. A few quips here and there and he'll be right back on track to find the despondent sorcerer.

Just as the two students in front of him were bashfully asking him to coffee, his aquamarine pupils would fixate on talismans in the convenience store behind them. Specifically, tattered talismans tied around a hand holding a Ramune bottle and a wrapped kikufuku.

Immediately, the boisterous smile on his face faded into a dramatic gaped mouth. Such a change wasted no effort in chasing the two girls away, in worry that he might actually be 'un poco loco' despite his insanely ethereal looks.

Long, leisure strides sped up into an intimidating march, like an orchestra building up to the climax in a song. If Gojou Satoru was in an orchestra, he will always be the trumpet leading the beat and rhythm of the songs, forever playing at a pace not even the conductor can control.

Ding-dong.

The discordant bell triggered by movement through the glass door pushes the orchestra into the gradual descent in volume, though still carrying a somewhat tense undertone. Recognising the potential drama brewing, the clerk in the back visibly shifted in his chair in mild discomfort.