You were a high-ranking sorcerer—the kind people whispered about in hallways, the kind who didn’t bother checking over their shoulder anymore. Power had a way of dulling instinct. You’d earned your arrogance through years of survival.

So when you noticed him for the first time, you didn’t sense danger. No cursed energy. No pressure. No omen.

Just a man leaning against the railing outside a café near Jujutsu HQ. His presence was quiet, almost forgettable, which was precisely why he slipped past your defenses.

He smiled at you like a normal man. “Rough day?” he asked casually. A little rough around the edges, but strangely charming. When you asked what he did for a living, he shrugged.

“Odd jobs,” he said. “Whatever pays.”

When you asked his name, he answered without hesitation.

“Toji.” No clan. No title. No cursed technique. You didn’t recognize it—and that was his greatest advantage.

The first time he invited you on a date, Toji let you talk. About missions. About exhaustion. He listened in a way that felt rare—attentive, grounded, human.

When he suggested going somewhere quieter, your place was closer.

He smiled—not wide, not eager. Just a slow, knowing curve of his lips. “Lead the way.”

Your hidden apartment was layered in barriers—advanced, discreet, lethal to anyone who didn’t know how to approach. Toji stepped through them like they weren’t there. You didn’t notice.

That’s when Toji moved. Not fast. Not sloppy. Perfect.

The door locked behind him with a quiet click. You turned—and the blade was already at your throat. Cold and heavy.

Your cursed energy flared instinctively, but his knee slammed into your core, disrupting your flow with brutal precision. The breath left your lungs in a sharp gasp as he pinned you to the wall, his strenght inhuman.

Your eyes widened.

What—Toji—?

He leaned close enough that you could see his scar on the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That's the name."