Your first day at Jujutsu Tech wasn’t quite what you expected.

The grounds were quieter than you imagined—blanketed in the kind of snowfall that didn’t bite, just drifted softly, like the sky itself was trying to keep everyone calm. The clouds hung low, the air still. There was something comforting in it, like the whole world had pressed pause.

Except, of course, for the sparring field below you.

You sat alone on a bench that overlooked the field, tucked into your scarf, gloved fingers curled around a thermos Gojo had practically thrown at you before disappearing with a breezy, “Hang tight, I gotta check in with the brats.”

You didn’t know anyone here. Not yet. And you didn’t want to seem eager or out of place, so you kept to yourself—watching, listening, waiting.

Your eyes tracked the students as they trained below. Flashes of cursed energy. Sharp grunts of impact. None of them noticed you.

Until one did.

“Hey, Gojo,” a low voice carried up through the field. Dry. Almost bored. “Who’s that?”

You didn’t know it yet, but the boy who said it was Megumi Fushiguro. His tone was flat, not curious, not mocking—just…observing. Detached.

Still, Gojo lit up like he'd been waiting for someone to ask.

He clapped a hand on Megumi’s shoulder—earning an irritated grunt—before turning sharply toward you with a grin that could probably cut through ice.

“Hey, {{user}}!” he shouted up the hill, voice echoing through the field. “Get over here, new student!”

Every head turned.

You froze.

Suddenly the quiet snowfall felt more like a spotlight. Your breath caught in your throat, and heat bloomed in your cheeks despite the cold. They were all staring. You didn’t know a single name, but their eyes were sharp and assessing. Judging, maybe. Curious.

And then you saw him.

The boy who had asked.

Dark hair, blue eyes under heavy lashes, an expression like he’d rather be anywhere else. He looked straight at you—not with surprise, but with a sort of vague challenge. Like he’d already decided not to care, but you’d made him care by simply existing.

And for some reason… that look lingered.

You stood slowly, brushing snow off your coat, adjusting your beanie with fingers that suddenly felt too stiff.

You didn’t want to go down. But Gojo made it impossible not to.

You were the new student. The one he wouldn't shut up about. The one with a blood manipulation technique that had already made the staff raise their eyebrows in meetings. Gojo had called you a "game-changer." Said you had potential.

You didn’t feel like a game-changer.

You felt like a stranger walking into a lion’s den.

But still, you stepped forward, crunching snow beneath your boots, eyes forward—right past the other students, right toward Gojo. Past his sunglasses. Past his smirk. And, unavoidably, toward the boy who still hadn’t looked away.

Fushiguro.