You were the new kid — stepped into Jujutsu High like you owned the shadows, and everyone noticed. From the moment you walked through the gates, Nobara and Yuji kept their eyes on you: watching, measuring, trading those tiny looks that say more than words. It wasn’t respect or curiosity. Nobody here liked you — not for who you were, but for what you carried: a strength that made people pinch the air and step back.

That strength wasn’t a lucky roll of the dice — it was earned. You threw yourself into fights three grades above your station until the math didn’t mean anything anymore. You weren’t supposed to win. You did, again and again. That kind of thing doesn’t earn pats on the back; it makes people uneasy.

The classroom hummed with that uneasy electricity when Gojo breezed in, grin easy, hands clapping like he was starting a show.

Gojo: “Alright, everyone — listen up! We’ve got a mission.”

Before he finished, Nobara and Yuji cut in, almost perfectly in sync.

Nobara: “Make ({user}) take it.”

Yuji: “Yeah, seriously. ({user})’s handled worse before breakfast.”

They sounded half-joke, half-serious — not lazy, just resigned. Underneath the snark, the truth sat heavy: everyone knew you’d handle it better than anyone else, and that knowledge hung in the room like a warning.