'There'll be nothing left of you when he's done'. 'He'll never let you leave'.
Ieiri's ominous words echo in my skull, rattling around like bones in a box. Nothing left... My mind drifts to that nature Cursed Spirit, the one from the Shibuya Arc that he'd turned into a stain on the subway wall. And he'd done it with a manic smile. Right. As goofy and unimposing as he'd been playing at for most of his life, Gojo Satoru is as vicious as a shark during a feeding frenzy. One whiff of blood and bam! I curl into fetal position on the couch, holding onto the pillow for dear life.
I'm totally going to die here, I think, melancholy. I squirm a bit on the couch before getting restless. Then I start pacing the apartment again.
Scattered on the coffee table in front of me are a dozen or so pages filled with drawings and notes. They're as detailed as I can make them, without going back and reading a synopsis. I hadn't realized how much of the manga I'd forgotten about until I'd been forced to regurgitate it. Taking care of Mom the last few months had been a drain on my mental fortitude. And before that, I hadn't been that avid of a reader anyway, if I'm being honest. I casually enjoyed Jujutsu Kaisen, sure, but it's not one of my ride or die series. And wow, do I wish it had been when I'd had access to it.
At least I'd be better prepared.
Then again, nobody expects to suddenly wind up the protagonist of an Isekai; that shit just doesn't happen IRL.
Ieiri had gathered all of the confidential documents that Gojo 'borrowed' from the Jujutsu High archives before leaving, cursing the blue-eyed Sorcerer the whole time under her breath. I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her; he seems to be the one who needs babysitting, not me. Gojo's a loose cannon, a man who does whatever he pleases, consequences for others be damned. I'd seen it time and time in my own world, while his character on a page or a screen made mischief for no other reason than 'I can'. He's fickle, a troublemaker.
And he has complete control of my fate. I wish I were in better hands.
After imparting a new sense of dread into me, the doctor had left me alone in the apartment once more. Again, she didn't seem concerned about binding me in any way. So, I'm left free to wander to my heart's content. And wander, I do. Between finishing drying the bedspread and remaking the bed, I'd made my rounds of the apartment. Three or four times, just cataloguing everything I could find.
The main level is enormous, with a sprawling full-sized kitchen and living room. The kitchen is tasteful, if a bit dark. Dark wood cabinets, dark counters, dark tile. The only thing that brightens it are the inset lights under the overhead cabinetry and the pendant lights that dangle down over the island. The whole thing is modern, with sleek chrome appliances that actually talk; the dishwasher had whistled out a cheery 'good morning' before kicking on. And the microwave oven sings a digitized version of Moonlight Sonata to let you know when the food is done. I spend an hour or so poking and prodding all the machinery to see what I could get it to do or say.
The living room is similarly brooding, color-wise. The furniture is black leather, sleek and surprisingly plush to sit on. Gojo has a couch and two loveseats, though I doubt he ever has enough company to fill all the seating at once. The walnut coffee table in the center is practically large enough to be its own city-state. Only a lone plant pot occupies its space—quickly revealed upon closer examination to be a fake succulent. There's no television. Rather, large bookcases span the brickwork walls on either side. They stretch from floor to the ceiling of the open second story on one side, and there's a build-in swinging ladder to allow people to reach the topmost shelves. The far wall is nothing but a sea of windows, two stories tall and covered in translucent cream curtains.
The laundry space is just off the living room, underneath the loft. It's where the spiral staircase leading to the second floor is located. There's nothing of interest here, only a rack with a wad of bandages on it. They must be what he puts over his eyes, I note. I remember that he switches to the blindfold sometime between Jujutsu Kaisen 0 and season one, though I'm not sure of the exact timeline. Season one takes place in... 2018? Right? So that's three years from now.
The hallway branching off the opposite direction to the laundry is a hallway that leads to the bathroom. And to the mysterious, inaccessible 'Back Room' of legend. The bathroom is a spacious double vanity with vessel sinks that just scream 'I have too much money'. There's a clawfoot tub and a standing shower, for whatever reason. And the toilet has its own little room, which is fancier than a toilet deserves, honestly. Again, all dark tile and wood.
The whole place is, in a word, beautiful. It's an industrial-style dream, straight out of a housing catalogue. But it feels out of place in Japan; this is something that more belongs in New York and Tokyo. And it's cold, impersonal. There are no decorations, no personal affects, no pictures. It feels barely lived in. And I feel more like a ghost haunting the walls than a person when I roam.
It almost feels stifling.
I can't exactly leave through the front door—as much as I'd love to. For one, it's definitely locked; I'd heard the tumblers shift into place when Ieiri had left. And two, there's a post-it note stuck to the door with Gojo's handwriting that explicitly tells 'Spy-chan' to 'stay'. So I'm staying. He'd find me wherever I tried to go, and there's no point in running anyway. This isn't even my world, so... where would I go?
I open the curtains in the living room. The windows are covered in an opaque white film. Weird, I think, reaching out to touch the glass. Instead of coming in contact with something firm, though, the surface seems to almost ripple. It's a slow, almost oozing motion, like the windows have been coated in a thick syrup. But when I remove my fingers, they aren't sticky. I poke and prod at the weird substance before closing the curtains and backing away.
"It must be a Veil," I state out loud. "No wonder they aren't worried about me escaping."
The I sigh and curl back up on the couch.
And I watch the ceiling fan overhead spin in a lazy circle. Round and Round.
I never thought I'd be bored in a hostage situation. My phone had been confiscated to prevent me from contacting anybody, and it's not like I could've done anything on it without cellular data or Gojo's wifi password anyway. There'd been a moment where I'd considered reading some of the books on Gojo's shelving, but I'm not exactly sure what counts as 'naughty' in his mind. I'd hate to get in trouble because I touch something I'm not supposed to.
Instead, I'd ran my fingertip down the spines of the books, reading their titles. The larger bookcase is mostly dedicated to entertainment: novels, manga, magazines, and even a few boxes filled with cards and board games. I was surprised to find that there's a pretty wide variety to Gojo's collection—sci-fi, fantasy, drama, horror, comedy, and even a romance or two. And I was even more surprised to find that I recognized some of the titles, and that we apparently share a profound love of Noragami. He has volumes one through fourteen. I wonder why he doesn't have more, until I realize that this is 2015—eight years ago, for me. They probably aren't out yet.
When I took my fingers away, they were coated in a thick layer of dust; Gojo is a man with very little free time to relax and enjoy himself, it seems.
The smaller set of bookcases are mostly related to Jujutsu Sorcery. Judging from the titles, some are academic studies done over the centuries by various Sorcerers while others are comprehensive primers on known clan Techniques. And scientific papers as well. Some of this stuff is frighteningly advanced, and I can barely make heads or tails of the titles: 'The Thermodynamics of Cursed Energy Transfers Between Users of Imminent Domains' and 'Reactive Chemistry: Practical Understanding of Elemental Manipulation Techniques' stand out, but there are others as well. There are thick leather-bound genealogies, what appear to be personal journals, field guides for recognizing hauntings, theoretical texts about the origin of Cursed Energy, historical accounts of famous hauntings in Japan, and some sort of religious texts that appear to be European in nature. Some of the items on the shelves aren't even books, rather, are scrolls whose paper looks near to disintegrating. How old is some of this stuff?! Gojo has the most fragile-looking objects hidden behind tinted glass to protect them from moisture and light.
Those shelves, I noted, were totally spotless when I swiped my finger across them; he must use the texts for research or his teaching, then. Again, he subverts my expectations; I hadn't expected him to be so well-read or researched. The media had always portrayed him as a little incompetent outside of fighting, if I'm being honest, often failing to tell Yuji or Yuuta something that they needed to know or throwing them into a dangerous situation blind. But if he's read even half of these texts, he must have an astounding amount of knowledge stored under that white mop of his. I wonder if, maybe, he's actually a good teacher?
I doze on and off between writing, drawing, and snooping; the bed is too far away and feels too intimate, so I take the couch. Morning light eventually breaks through the curtains and I make myself breakfast with a sugary cereal and milk that's a little close to the expiration date for my tastes. I'm pretty sure the cereal is stale, too; it tastes like old gum and has the texture of packing peanuts. When I look at the analogue clock on the wall, I note that it's half-past seven a.m. Visiting hours at Mom's hospital begin at nine, so I'm used to getting up and getting ready early.
Gojo hadn't supplied me with any personal toiletries yet, so I'm forced to use whatever I can find in the bathroom. While rooting around, I discover that he's a bit of a priss. Row after row of haircare and skincare products that I've never seen before greet me when I open the cabinet above the lefthand vessel sink. There are tooth whitening aids, four different flavors of mouthwash, and a giant bag of flossing forks. I even note a cutesy little panda spa mask that looks wildly out of place amongst the beauty products. I have to pick clumps of snowy hair from his brush, nose wrinkling in disgust all the while. This is certainly ruining his image of being some sort of sex symbol. I wonder how bigger fans of his might react to finding half a Gojo's worth of hair—they'd probably keep it in their purse, to be honest, like people in my old world used to do to celebrities. I run the brush through my tangles and swish with some of the mouthwash when I can't find a spare toothbrush.
Then I go back to dying of boredom
It's a little after ten in the morning when the front door opens. And I'm sure it's not Gojo because he'd just flip the bird to the laws of space and time and warp in like he had before.
Ieiri, again. She's taking this babysitting gig seriously. Greeting me by name, she offers me a lukewarm smile while discarding her modest heels near the entrance.
"Satoru finished the mission early, but isn't back in Japan yet," she informs me, filling Gojo's kettle with water and flipping the stovetop on. "He was rerouted to Taiwan sometime after midnight to investigate a potential Special-Grade Apparition. He promised to finish up quickly, but there's no telling how long it will take the thing to hatch; Cursed Wombs are unpredictable at the best of times."
"So, does he just...poof wherever? Can he teleport anywhere in the world?"
Ieiri eyes me critically, probably wondering if I'm going to use the information for nefarious purposes. She seems to decide pretty quickly that my inquiry is harmless, though, because she answers. "Technically, yes. But it's not safe to displace himself that far often, and it's a drain even on his body. He's flown to most of the places he has to go. Of course, with Infinity, he can't go through customs or sit in those tightly-packed seats. Our establishment has a private jet that shuttles him around."
I guess that make sense. There's a part of me that shivers on behalf of Mother Earth, though. All that jet fuel...
"Anyway, he said that you should be busy drawing up 'a whole heap' of evidence for us to look at." Her short nail taps on the black marble countertop. "Bring them in here, please."
The kettle starts to whistle when I've gathered the last of my notes and deposited them on the kitchen island. She passes me a mug of steaming water and a tea bag, and I thank her when the ceramic of the cup warms my chilled fingers. I hadn't noticed how cold it is in the apartment until now.
I pass her my stack. "So, this is everything up until a certain point. Some of my memory is a bit spotty, but it should be the important stuff anyway."
Ieri shuffles through the pages, looking at my character renditions and event synopses. "These are good", she praises. "And you drew all of this last night?"
"I've had practice. I used to dabble in manga," I admit sheepishly. What I don't tell her, though, is that I earned quite a bit of money drawing smutty slash doujinshi about most of the male characters in popular media. And a not insignificant amount of that had been steamy JJK garbage. Ah, college. I'd only done a year of it before dropping out, but I missed that lawless wasteland.
I steep my tea while the brown-haired woman reads my notes. Today, her chestnut hair is bound tightly at the base of her neck with a no-nonsense bun, only a few hairs escaping around her temples. A pair of catlike spectacles are placed at the end of her nose while she reads. Mom would've said that Ieiri is 'rocking sexy librarian vibes', especially with her conservative cardigan and prim knee-length khaki skirt.
She freezes, mouth agape, when she comes to a very specific page. It's honestly the thing I've been dreading to show Gojo. And I'd put it off until one of the very last drawings I did.
"Is this... is this Suguru?" She fixes me with an intense look and pushes the character profile in question at me. And her face is the most emotive I've ever seen it. There's worry in her eyes, disbelief, fear. "Is this Geto Suguru? Do you know where he is?"
Even drawn in a cartoonish style, I'm certain she'd been able to pick his features out with no troubles. He's a very recognizable man, after all. I think I've perfectly managed to capture the feline qualities of his closed-eye smile, and his long black hair. Of course, she doesn't say anything about the stitches in his forehead. And that's not something I want to reveal quite yet; explaining Kenjaku right now feels like a long conversation best left for Gojo's return.
"This is Geto," I confirm, voice heavy. This was her friend, too, not just Gojo's. They'd been in the same year of school, after all, and had fought Curses together. "I don't know exactly what he's up to right now. He takes control of the remnants of the Time Vessel Association after leaving Jujutsu Tech, but the timeline I have is vague at best. This is what he looks like in 2018, when the main body of the series takes place. He's, well... he's not one of the good guys." Well, it's not exactly him, but... "I'm sorry that I don't have more information."
Ieiri shakes her head and sighs. Her voice shakes when she replies. "No; it's fine. We might be able to track his movements based on the cult's. The Time Vessel Association has been quiet for years now, though." She side eyes me. "We knew it would come to this eventually; we're prepared to face him."
She lays the drawing face down, pushing it far away from herself. Then she takes a deep breath. I look away, giving her a moment to calm down.
We sit in silence for a moment, sipping our tea.
"Satoru won't like this," she finally says, breaking our tentative repose. "In fact, don't tell him. Not yet, not until he trusts you. Because if he doesn't..." the implication is enough. I know that the turmoil of their failed friendship is a sore spot, and that prodding it is akin to jabbing my thumbs into the wounded hide of a dragon. Seeing Geto's body had been the thing powerful enough to get Gojo sealed away, after all. An emotional timebomb like that... I'm not going to detonate it—not if I can help it, anyway.
Then it's silent again. Only the sound of shuffling paper breaks up the monotony of the humming HVAC unit in the background. Occasionally, I take a sip out of my mug and contemplate where exactly to go from here. I'm dancing on a precarious ledge right now. One small misstep and I slip right into the abyss.
And if I die here, I don't know that I'll end up back in my own world.
"You have quite a bit of information. Probably more than a normal spy would be able to compile, if I'm honest," the doctor admits, voice a thoughtful hum. "Satoru theorized that you have a mind reading Technique."
Mind reading Technique? I place a pointer finger on my chin. "Oh, right. He asked me if I could read minds. Was... was he not just joking or whatever?"
Ieiri tilts her head thoughtfully. "Well, it would explain how you know so much about us. And a mind-reading Technique is hardly a stretch, given recent events."
"B-but I'm not even a Sorcerer!" I sputter out. At least, I don't think I am. As far as I can tell, I didn't luck out on the Isekai power lottery when I'd canon-balled into this hellscape of magical nonsense. "That's ridiculous!"
One of her thin eyebrows arches. "More ridiculous than interdimensional travel?"
And okay, point in her favor. I guess one level of craziness doesn't really outweigh the other, does it? The Sorcerers in this world must be used to some wild stuff, given what powers exist in the manga. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, is reading minds really such a stretch. If Gojo thinks that, though, it'll be difficult to convince him of my origins. no matter what events in the past I reference, he'll probably assume that I'm digging around in his memories. So, what to do? Maybe finding one of the Disaster Curses will prove me right, I think, tapping my finger on the drawing of Hanami.
I cast a wandering eye to Ieiri, bringing my tea up to my lips and taking a deep drink. "What do you think about all of this?"
"I think that your story is fascinating, at least. If you're lying, you came up with quite the tale. Of course, why you'd tell this particular lie is anybody's guess. And I'm not sure of your motivations, given that you haven't tried to escape, even though I'm vulnerable and Satoru is away. There's a larger question about your end goal. I'd ask you, but I'm afraid that I can't trust anything that you say until we can prove otherwise."
Annoyed, I grump at her. "Fair," I begrudgingly concede.
"There is one thing that I'm almost certain of, though: you're certainly not a Curse User with any sort of mind reading Technique."
"Oh?"
"I've been testing you the entire time I've been here. So, it's unlikely you can read thoughts."
Wow, I don't like the sound of that. I blink at her blankly. "Er... testing?"
She cups her chin and her stern gaze digs into my body like icy daggers. "Well, I've been considering how to kill you a few different ways." Her fingertip circles flirts with the rim of her glass, tracing a hypnotic pattern. "Those with Techniques that let them read minds often skim thoughts instinctively. It's likely that you would've reacted to my threats by now if you were able. Though that's not, by itself, proof."
"Then what is?"
"You're still sitting there, drinking your tea," she answers cryptically.
"Yeah? and?" I ask, peering down at my cup. What does tea have to do with anything? I take a sip, intentionally making eye contact with the other woman.
"You've been calmly drinking poison—a mild one, granted. Yet you've very nearly drained your glass."
Poison? I've been poisoned?
This simple statement floors me. It's said so casually, so dismissively, that I have to do a double take. And when it hits me full force, it feels like getting plowed into by a truck. I spit out the mouthful of tea I'd just gulped. And let out a hacking dough when the liquid drains into my lungs. Time seems to halt around me, grinding to a standstill. And the room shrinks until I exist in less than a pinprick of space. Well, that's not okay. Am I going to die?!
"If you knew, you would've refused a glass. Or pretended to drink, only to dump it out after I left. You did neither." Ieiri stands up calmly and walks towards me. There's no malice in her gaze, no sadistic pleasure; she's merely observing with the detachment that a scientist offers a bacterium in a petri dish. "Either Satoru is wrong, or you're quite committed to your cause. Which is it, I wonder?"
"Excuse me?! Can we go back to the mild poison?" I'm hyperventilating, now. "Am I going to start bleeding out of my eyes, or what?!"
"It's okay. Just a little cyanide for flavor."
Cyanide?! My hands clench and unclench. My mouth dries, and I feel like a rock has dropped in my chest. This is just a joke, right? Not. Fucking. Funny. But if it's not some twisted prank... I need to get everything out of my stomach. Fast. And I run to the bathroom. There's barely enough time to lift up the lid of the toilet before I throw up the meager contents of my stomach. Uncaring of how dirty the seat must be, I press my burning forehead to the coolness of the ceramic. I pant like a dog under the summer sun, the taste of bile lingering like sludge on my taste buds. What if it already absorbed into my bloodstream?
Am I going to die? I drank nearly the whole cup! How long until I start to show symptoms? How will I know when it's kicked in?
There's movement at the door, and I look up to see Ieiri's straightforward gaze. "Well, there goes that theory," she mutters, and I'm left to shudder in horror. Theory? And when I ask as much, she just smiles coldly. "The antidote is in my bag. Of course, if you were able to dip into my thoughts, you'd have already taken it."
It's all just a test. Every bit of it. I feel faint. All of this was just some fucked up experiment? Why?! To test some half-baked hypothesis that I can read minds? These people keep toying with me—first Gojo, now her. Aren't they supposed to be the good guys?! Maybe I'd be better off with Geto at this rate. I stifle a sob behind my hand, shaking so hard that my teeth chatter.
"Fuck you," I croak out, shaking like a leaf.
"If that's all it takes to put you on the ground, how are you going to deal with the bigger threats that come to you? If the Higher Ups learn about you, it'll be so much more than poison." She's lit another cigarette. The minty smoke makes my stomach turn again. "First, they'll torture you for any information they can get out of you; they'll wring you dry for days and days until you've expelled everything they deem useful. Then, they'll take you up on a stage, parade you as a threat to Jujutsu Society, turn you into a scapegoat for all the evils and ills that exist in this world. And they'll execute you while a crowd of sycophants throws rotten food and insults at your broken body.
"Compared to that? This is nothing."
The picture she paints is grim. Am I truly stuck with the lesser of two evils? Is there nowhere safe to turn in this universe? I think I might actually die here. If not in this apartment to poison, then at the hands of some other member of Jujutsu Society. Or a Curse. How will I survive?
This... this isn't how it's supposed to be. This isn't how the fanfictions go. Am I doing something wrong? Am I the problem? Or is this just the realistic outcome and I'd been expecting too much?
I hate this rotten universe and these rotten people in it. If I ever wake up from this nightmare, I'm burning every last fucking edition of Jujutsu Kaisen with glee. I'll dance on the damn ashes after the fire goes out, even. This place is awful. Why would anybody want to transmigrate here, when this is what it's really like? So much for the fantasy of fanfiction plots. I'd trade anything to go back. Now.
"I hate this world." I let out a whimper, followed by a meek sniffle. "I hate all of you. I just want to go home. Just let me go. Please?"
It's almost imperceptible, but I see her flinch. She snuffs the cigarette out in the vessel sink.
"That's not possible—not with what you seem to know." The admission makes her eyes soften ever so slightly. But, in the end, she remains stalwart. A woman with a mission and people to protect. There's no leeway for a potentially dangerous person, but there's the barest hint of sympathy for a scared girl. She steps forward and flushes down my vomit, then kneels so that she's eye-level with me. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Then there's a surprisingly gentle hand brushing my hair out of my face.
She pops a capsule of something being shoved into my hand. The antidote. I'm wary of taking anything she offers me, and I resist the urge to throw it on the ground and crush it underfoot. Instead, I shove the pill into my mouth and swallow it dry. It scrapes at my throat on the way down before settling into my stomach like a barbell. I feel sick all over again. I retch and gag. Once more, Ieiri reaches over my head to flush the toilet, and I watch the contents swirl away with dread.
Tears finally start to snake down the lines of my face.
Then the woman is rising again. "Come on. Stand up."
I shake my head, curling my hand over my face while my shoulders shake in time with my sobs. I want to go home. I want to go home.
I want...
I want...
I want my Mom. And I want my little apartment and my crappy car and my unfinished painting.
Something resembling a wail is building in my chest, begging to be let loose.
Strong hands grip my shoulders and hoist me up, even as my knees remain limp. Then a wet cloth is being swiped over my lips to clean any traces of my half-digested meal. And I'm being led back to the living room through a sea of tears. There's a presence that hadn't been there before: Gojo. Through my blurry eyes, he's little more than a black and white blob. But I'd recognize that tall frame and casual stance anywhere. He's at the island, sifting through the pages Ieri and I had left. Despite the fact that his back is to us, I know he can see everything that's going on.
I tuck my shame into the crook of my elbow and cry as silently as I can muster. This is embarrassing, crying in front of the strongest Sorcerer for the second time. He must think I'm spineless, a weakling. On the other hand, who cares? Who cares what this rude, sadistic manchild thinks?! He's the one keeping me here, right? He's the one that'd plucked me off the streets and placed me in this prison of metal and brick.
I hate him.
I really, really hate both of them.
This feeling of rage boils in my gut, even as Ieiri takes the soft grey blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around my shaking shoulders. Her touch is careful, like she's trying to soothe an injured animal. I feel like a creature under observation in a zoo.
He turns to us, black glasses impenetrable. And a wide smile cracks his face. "Well, if it isn't my two favorite ladies! Miss me while I was gone?" I barely catch the suggestive waggling of his eyebrows through my blurry vision.
All this does is add to my discontent, like pouring accelerant on a fire. He can clearly see that something is wrong, right? And he's just... joking. Like always. Like nothing serious could possibly be happening. Like my tears are nothing to get bent out of shape about. Then again, what had I expected? Sympathy? Understanding?
Stupid, I admonish myself. I'm still the same naïve idiot, hoping for tender mercies that don't exist. I'm still the little girl fantasizing about happy endings and miracles. The reality? People suck—even the ones that aren't real.
"Satoru," Ieiri greets with uncharacteristic warmth, sidling up beside him. "How was your trip?"
"A total snooze-fest," the man complains, and makes some flippant hand gestures. "The Curses in Hong Kong were barely Semi-First-Grade. And the Cursed Womb in Taiwan was less than that." A heavy sigh. "The mainland Sorcerers are so weak. They just can't compete with us, can they?"
"Nobody can compete with you, Satoru," the woman points out. And then she's plucking his glasses off the end of his nose in a playful gesture and popping them over her own eyes. And in return, he ruffles her hair affectionately. Closeness, connection, compassion. Something that I hadn't realized I've been starved of until I was alone in a foreign world.
I avert my eyes and rush past them, stomping up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft. The blanket from the couch acts as a shield against their probing gazes. The once-soft material now rubs and chafes at my hyper-sensitive skin. And the heaviness of it makes it feel like I have the world on my shoulders. The loft is quieter, the air lighter and cooler. But I don't feel safe yet. I don't think I'll feel secure until I'm back in my own bed, in my own world.
I don't know that I'll ever feel safe again, honestly.
Like a child hiding from the bad things, I tuck my body into the space between the bedframe and the floor. And I press into a tight ball until not even my toes peek out from under the bed. If I hide away long enough, maybe the scary people will go away, cries the tiny part of my brain that's been silent for years.
Below, I can hear the sounds of the stools at the island shifting as they presumably sit next to each other. Then the shuffling of papers and the occasional quiet remark. They must be aware that I'm listening, because they keep their murmuring to such a low volume that I can barely discern what they're saying. I wonder what they think, seeing all those pages splayed out before them, marking their once-fuzzy futures with solid lines and tangible words. I wonder if they'll feel despair when they see the death toll for the Shibuya Incident and the Culling Games.
I wonder...
I tuck my nose into the blanket around me and shudder. Tears and snot stain the blanket near my face, but I can't stop crying.
Gojo's voice breaks the monotony of pages rustling. "If all of this is true, then..." His voice trails off, but for once he sounds unsure of himself. He might be coming around, might be starting to believe me. That doesn't bring the relief it should.
Then, quieter, he admonishes Ieri. "You made Spy-chan cry, didn't you? You're so harsh!"
A beat. Then quieter still, so much so that I can barely hear them.
"If we keep pushing her, she's going to break", Ieri murmurs.
Gojo's only response is a calm, "I know."
They go back to their reading and quiet contemplation. I curl up tighter and cry harder, fingers clawed into the blanket. And I hope that my hand can stifle my sobs. I don't want them to hear my weakness.
I picture a door in my mind. And I try to lock the hurt behind it.
:.:
Hours pass under the bed. I must eventually fall asleep, because I blink and find that it's nighttime—at least, I assume, judging from the lack of light filtering in through the curtains. A whole day wasted hiding and crying. God, I'm a mess. I can feel myself unraveling, ever so slowly. Like a well-worn tapestry, pulling apart and losing its once-vibrant imagery.
I stretch, hissing under my breath when my compacted muscles and joints creak. I've spent far too long in fetal position; everything's locked up tighter than a steel drum. I flex my hand and the knuckles pop from gripping the blanket so viciously. And I wiggle my fingers, eyeing them. The nails are bleeding at the edges again; I must've chewed them at some point.
And when I look back up, I squeal in terror. Because there's a face peering over the edge of the bed, uncovered blue eyes glowing like blacklights. And my heart stops for a moment. Gojo's head tilts, and he observes me like a cat would a mouse. I watch him back, unblinking and more than a little wary of him. And if I admire him just a little bit?
Well, only I'll know.
And admire him, I do. Just for a moment.
Gojo's uncanny beauty is haunting in the dim of evening, the fine edges of his face made all the sharper and more defined by shadow. And the electric quality of the Six Eyes is something else... something almost sinister in its tangible power. They glitter like moonlight on the surface of a lake, just as deep and just as dark. Hair the color of starlight is made silver by the water droplets clinging to it. Fresh from a shower, he smells like something clean, like cedar and lemongrass. I breath him in on the sharp inhale and revel in the intoxicating aroma. Everything about him is attractive. So very, very beautiful.
He's the kind of pretty that poisonous animals and plants are—the kind that implore you to touch with bright colors, only to leave you dying later.
Danger, danger, screams the rational part of my brain on repeat. 'You caught his eyes; not something I'd wish on any normal person', the phantom of Ieiri Shoko's voice agrees. 'Satoru likes to play with his prey'.
The cat comparison feels apt. There's a feline quality to the way he moves and acts, and I can feel something predatory lurking in his unwavering gaze now. I shiver, and I don't doubt that those sharp eyes catch the movement in high definition.
"Spy-chan," he coos, "you're supposed to sleep on the bed, not under it." I glare at him. "You didn't eat dinner. Aren't you hungry?"
I shuffle further backwards, trying to get as far under the bed as possible. "Nuh—nope. I think I'm good for tonight. Just gonna stay here and sleep some more."
His head tilts further and a smile crawls across his perfect lips. "Shoko-chan said you should have something; doctor's orders."
"I'm really, really okay. Thank you, though."
"If you don't come out on your own, I'll have to drag you out."
"Make me," I snipe.
I realize that trying to stay tucked away in my hidey hole isn't feasible, but I'm stubborn enough that he won't get me out without a fight. He seems to realize the moment I've made up my mind to stay, because he lets out a sigh. And he mutters something unintelligible that I assume is a slight towards me. Don't care—I'm not moving. For good measure, I even bare my teeth at him in challenge. I half-expect him to reach underneath and drag me out by my ankles while I yowl in anger. But he takes it one step further: he picks up the whole damn bed with a single hand. And it just floats in place, suspended by his will alone. My eyes grow wide at the casual display of strength and Sorcery. The frame must be at least two hundred pounds, and he'd just... lifted it like it was no more inconvenient or troubling than lifting a piece of paper.
While I'm still shell-shocked—because, duh, he's got their weirdo version of fucking magic here—he bends his great height down and hoists me up, blanket wrapped around my legs like a bolas. I land with a disgruntled 'hrumph' on his shoulder. I'm startled for a moment before I start raining down little punches on his back and shoulders. Not that any connect, mind you. Stupid Infinity. With all the broken pride I can muster, I dare him to turn off his power and fight me like a man, but he just lets out a little laugh. Then a firm smack stings the left cheek of my ass.
Did...
Did he...
Did he just spank me?!
I let out a little scream of outrage and wiggle ineffectively in his grasp. I'm caught, though. A worm on a hook. A rabbit in a snare.
The Sorcerer laughs in his typical carefree way and carries me over his shoulder like a caveman with a deer carcass. There's a moment when I almost expect him to grunt out 'unga bunga' and start banging on his chest like an ape. Behind us, the bed falls back to the floor with a loud thunk, and I again marvel at the weight it must have. Carrying me must me like lifting air. And my punches must feel like little kitten swipes against his Technique.
When he steps up on the metal railing of the loft, my stomach drops.
"Don't you fucking dare," I deadpan.
Dread pools in my stomach when I catch the side of his face, cheeks turned upwards in a mischievous smirk. And then my stomach drops when he kicks off. The fall isn't short—maybe twelve or thirteen feet—and it's just tall enough that my stomach twists in place. It's especially rage-inducing because I know that he can control the speed of our descent using Sorcery. But he just lets us teeter to the ground like Humpty Dumpty. And we land hard. The impact is absorbed by Gojo's knees for the most part, but the abrupt stop jostles me against his shoulder. I might throw up again.
The menace is chuckling, shoulders shaking under my stomach. And I reach out with the back of my fist to knock some sense into his thick skull, made all the angrier when the impact hits air and stops. "Can't you take the damn stairs like a normal human?!"
"Hey now, don't shriek in my ear."
He drops me like a sack of potatoes onto the cushy couch. I bounce. And then I scramble to the opposite end, wrapping the grey blanket around me like a shield. My nose touches my knees as I burrow into them, curling in on myself in a useless defensive measure. There's no point, though—I know that well. He'll just manhandle me again if he wants to. It's not the first time he's picked me up and tossed me around, and it won't be the last.
I take back what little power I have and I do the thing that I think will annoy him most: ignore him.
First, he calls out my stupid nickname in that brash, singsongy voice of his. I don't respond. Then he says my actual name in a serious voice, and it makes my heart lurch. His voice is still attractive, even if he's a jerk. And the way my name rolls off his tongue is a little... well... There's something about a name that's so intimate; I understand why they refer to people by their surnames in Japan now. And I continue to tune him out, more hurt and mad than scared of him at this point. He can throw a tantrum for all I care. Let him toss me from the rooftops; it might be quicker than whatever else awaits me.
It'll be better than poison. Or torture.
Eventually he gives up and bustles about in the kitchen behind me. I stay buried where I am, on the softness of the grey blanket that I'd held onto like a lifeline. I hear the sound of the fridge opening, then the microwave running. Maybe he'll leave me alone a bit longer. Maybe this is all a dream and I'll wake up? The thought falls flat on its face; that ship has sailed—this is real as anything else I've lived through. I close my eyes and think about how I'm going to get back home.
Gojo had said that there are Techniques that can teleport, right? His ability is bending space to his will, so maybe there's another person who can bend time? Then again, they'd have to be immeasurably powerful to rip a hole in another universe—stronger than Gojo, the widely-acknowledged strongest Sorcerer alive. Does anybody like that even exist? But then it makes me wonder again how I even got here in the first place. Either God has a wicked sense of humor, or there's something else at play. There has to be something pulling the strings.
I'm jolted out of my thoughts when something cold is pushed against my cheek. I jerk back with a squeal and try to bat it away, but it retracts out of reach.
Then I glare up at Gojo's stupidly tall figure. I notice that he's wearing his signature glasses again, hiding himself away. He pushes a can in my face insistently. Incensed, I snatch it from his hand and read the label.
"Ginger ale?"
"Shoko said your stomach was bothering you earlier."
"She slipped poison in my drink," I deadpan, voice scratchy. "Is it any fucking wonder I threw up?"
"Only a small dose. And she gave you the treatment for it immediately afterword."
I scowl at him. "Wow. That makes it all better. Thanks."
He sighs and plops down onto the couch beside me. His weight makes the whole thing ripple like a wave pool, and I'm jostled free from my cocoon. "Way to go, Shoko," he sighs. "Like using a sledgehammer to crack an egg."
Like he's one to talk, I think vehemently. He has no room to complain when his first instinct was to pop my joints out of their sockets like an evil child does to their action figures. Then, again tonight, he'd taken me from safety and tossed me over his shoulder. And my left buttcheek—it still smarts a little, to be honest. I open the can of soda and sip it, not sure if I should be eating or drinking anything they give me anymore. There's no telling what else they're going to do to test me. And I'm worried that it might escalate into actual poisoning attempts. Or worse.
"She said she was testing me," I grit out and turn to him with narrowed eyes. "News flash: I'm not a fucking mind reader."
"I know."
And I'm mad again, rubbing my stinging eyes furiously. "So then where does that leave me? Are you going to keep poking and prodding at me until have a meltdown? I told you the truth, and you don't believe me, so what am I supposed to do, huh? Just wait around until you guys decide to do something that actually kills me?!"
Gojo's head tilts, and I feel his gaze even if it's hidden behind those glasses of his. He's studying me. They're always studying me, seeing how I respond to external stimuli. Like a rat in a maze. When he looks away, I take the opportunity to study him in return. He's so very pretty, with his fine features and snowy hair. And, at first glance, he seems like an idiot. But I know he isn't; he's terrifyingly smart, if his little book collection is anything to go by. Smart and vicious. There's something jagged to him that I'm starting to pick up on. Everything feels carefully calculated, cultivated to elicit a response. Even when he's seemingly-jovial, there's always an edge to his playful words, to his teasing. He's pushing me towards something—I know that much, but can't understand what.
And I wonder just how much of his personality is fabricated to manipulate and charm others. How much of him is the real Gojo Satoru, and how much is this persona that he's crafted?
"Shoko was upset that I let you wander freely," Gojo states. "She thinks I was being too soft on you, and that made her worry. It's been like this since—," he cuts himself off. Geto, I assume he was going to say. "Anyway, she's fretted over me since we were in school together." He tilts his head back to rest against the couch, gazing upwards at the ceiling. "When I stated earlier that her paranoia and protectiveness often get the better of her, I wasn't kidding. She'll do anything to keep her precious people safe. That's why she was testing you earlier; to protect me."
"That's no excuse."
"No. It isn't. It's a valid reason." Gojo fixes me with that stare of his, behind the black glass of his lenses. "Jujustu Sorcerers dance with death on a daily basis; it's always step-in-step with us, mirroring our moves and coming closer until we fumble. We've had more friends die than we can count, and the number only grows with every passing year. That only makes you more protective of the ones we have left. You don't have to forgive her if she seems harsh, but she means well, I promise.
"Besides, you were never actually in any danger; she's not one to senselessly hurt others," he finishes quietly. "Shoko-chan is a kind person at heart."
I ponder over his words, sipping my ginger ale. My stomach still churns. This just reinforces how dangerous this world is, that the characters feel the need to go to such extremes—to hold a defenseless young woman over a busy street and threaten to drop her, to keep her captive, to threaten her with death and torture. Is this... is this really a world that people want to live in? But I guess my old world had been dangerous, as well, in different ways: wars, famine, terrorism, slavery. And it'd created all sorts of monsters of men. It'd also created some truly wonderful human beings, too, though.
People of all walks of life.
Just people, shaped by their environment. Not the 'good guys', but not evil, either. I have to take whatever preconceptions I've made about them and scrap them, pretend like I'm going in blind. Because, as familiar as I'd thought I was with these people, they're strangers. Not just characters anymore to play around with, but real people. And real people don't follow a script; they're unpredictable, dangerous. In the end, they're only human.
The microwave dings behind us and Gojo gets up to fish out whatever he's brought home. The smell of food permeates the air, makes my stomach rumble. I curl further into my borrowed blanket. How long has it been since I've eaten something proper? The ramen from earlier hadn't been filling enough to settle the hunger.
"I see that you added more to Mini-Gojo," he comments, speaking just to fill the silence. "'I have no brain, and I must speak'. That's a reference to Harlan Ellison, right? I wasn't aware that you were a fan of science fiction, Spy-chan."
I have no mouth, and I must scream.
"You don't know me at all; offense fully intended, by the way," I deadpan, voice exhausted. And when I look up at him, he's donned a cute little oven mitt covered in pandas. Huh, I'm starting to notice a theme. He's holding food in some sort of black tin, which is steaming beautifully. My stomach rumbles again, and I look away, embarrassed. I don't want his stupid food.
"You're right; I don't know you. We aren't exactly friends, are we?" Despite the words being blunt, his tone is frustratingly light.
He pops a coaster onto the coffee table and lays the food down. Oh, man... lasagna. I can't help but swallow thickly at the way my mouth waters. There's that infuriating smirk again, like he knows everything. He offers me a fork instead of chopsticks. I eye the thing warily before snatching it out of his hand. Then I pull a bit of the microwave lasagna out and pop it into my mouth, squealing when it's way too hot. I hear a snort off to my side, and promptly disregard; I'm still mad at him—fucker. The food's good, though. I know he's trying to bribe me, that this is a peace offering. But I'm hungry and tired.
The couch shifts as Gojo sags into its embrace again. He's a little too close, so I try to shift away. The heat of his body is intense, like the man is a walking sauna. He only follows me toward the edge of the couch, his knee nearly knocking against my own if it wasn't for the infinity keeping us from making contact.
I glance over at him and notice that he's got my drawings. Right now, he's staring intently at Hanami's portrait. The nature Cursed Spirit that he'd eventually tear the eyestalks out of and then crush into nothingness. The blue of his eyes peaks out over his glasses, and I wonder if he can read with those on. Do the Six Eyes only perceive Cursed Energy when hidden away or can they see things like colors and letters, too? I frown and shove another bite of lasagna in my mouth. It doesn't really matter if I know, does it?
"Is this everything you've managed to remember?" Gojo's eyeing me now, and I'm caught up how his irises glow in the low light of his apartment. It takes me a second to realize he'd asked a question. He fans out the drawings on the table.
For a moment, I consider clamming up and stubbornly not saying anything. I don't want to help either of them, especially after the stunt that Ieiri pulled. But I worry my silence will only make my situation worse. That's not something I'm willing to risk.
"Er... no. There's some stuff later, but this is the most important information. Keep in mind that the manga still wasn't finished by the time I left, so there might be some greater evil waiting in the wings," I add a disclaimer, just to cover my butt. "And this isn't necessarily up to date with the current arc, either."
"No?"
"It's a long manga," I defend myself. "I only had a night to draw, okay? I'm not some superhuman monster like the rest of you guys! I'm a regular person." That gets a booming laugh out of him. And it kinda catches me off guard, if I'm honest. And then it continues. "H-hey, shut up. It's not that funny."
"Sorry, sorry. It's just that you sounded like a co-worker just now. Well, a former co-worker, anyway. He left because he felt like he couldn't keep up with the strain of Sorcery; s'not uncommon, though, leaving to be 'normal'."
"Are you talking about Nanami Kento?" I have to resist the urge to squeal. Because that is my second favorite Jujutsu Kaisen character. Oh, man... I might get to meet him!!! Okay, so I'm suddenly okay with being here again. Then again, do I even want to meet him? So far, meeting characters from the manga hasn't exactly been how I'd imagined.
And I get bonked on the head with a rolled-up paper. "There you go again, knowing things you shouldn't. It's creepy," he states, miming a shiver.
"Is he not back yet?" He blinks, not understanding. I clarify. "Nanami gets tired of working his office job and comes back. He even calls you directly, I think, and you laugh at him. But I'm not sure when exactly it's going to happen."
"Nanamin returns to the fold?! I don't know if I believe you," he teases.
And that... well, that kills my good mood dead.
I scowl. "Well, you haven't believed me about anything else, so how is this different?"
"Very good point made," he praises me like one of his students.
His students... this is three years before the start of the series. And two before Yuuta, Maki, Panda, and Toge start high school. I wonder who his students are right now. Did the manga ever go into Jujutsu High alumni? I don't remember. There's that one guy with the executioner's hood that works with Nanami. And the one dressed like Inspector Gadget who wields the katana... and who else? I can't recall anybody's names. Ugh. I'm not the best option to get thrown into this universe. I can barely keep the names of the side characters straight.
But wait...
If this is three years prior, then Megumi should be in middle school right now. Or elementary; I'm not sure which one. And his sister... Tsumiki? I wonder where they are. They're implied to be under Gojo's care to some extent during his time period, but I'm not certain how involved the Limitless Sorcerer is in their lives. Has Tsumiki been cursed yet and fallen into a coma? I open my mouth to ask Gojo, but I'm not sure if this is the wisest course of action. I picture a minefield in front of me, and no matter where I step, I run the risk of getting my feet blown off by a very angry, very protective Sorcerer. So, I decide it's best to keep some of my cards close to my chest for now.
I'll let him lead the conversation.
I sigh. This isn't supposed to be this complicated. I glare at the lasagna in thought.
"Hey, now, it's not the food's fault. You're going to set it on fire with your mind at this rate." A finger jabs me in the line between my eyebrows. I flinch backwards and rub the sore spot. "You do that a lot, y'know: glare, frown, scowl. You're going to get wrinkles."
"Well, I haven't exactly had a lot to smile about the last few days, have I?"
Or, really, the last few months. But I'm not going to share my story with this jerk.
"Eat," he demands of me, like one would a fussy toddler. "You need something in your belly in case the cyanide Shoko gave you earlier wasn't fully neutralized."
Right. I'm still not done being angry over that. There's a moment of silence. It's not comfortable, and I shift anxiously next to him. His warmth permeates the barriers between us. My stomach growls again, and I sigh. Without protesting further, I shovel another large bite of the lasagna into my mouth. It still sits in my stomach like a rock. But at least I feel a little better.
"Shoko and I went over your intelligence earlier. She said that I should give you a chance, maybe listen to you." My eyes snap to meet his. The woman who'd served me poison earlier had also preached about trust? My eyes narrow in disbelief. No—it's another ploy, another test. The man, sensing my doubt, holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "No. Really. She said that you'd proved something to her earlier. I don't know how, but you earned her favor. Congrats."
I... I wonder what that could've been. I didn't feel like I'd said anything other than what I'd been repeating for a full day ad nauseam.
"And because of that, I'm going to extend you some trust of my own." He laces his finger together in front of him, pondering them for a moment. Then he turns to me with a serious expression. "I'm going to let you go tomorrow."
He's going to... I don't... The fork clatters to the floor, slipping from my slack fingers.
"What?!"