Being Satoru Gojo’s little sister is a full-time occupation with no days off and a boss who pays in relentless teasing. You’ve spent a lifetime in the shadow of a sun, blinded by the brilliance of him, the "Strongest", while you constantly fumble in the dark for your own spark. His sass is a language you’re fluent in, his mocking grin a permanent fixture in your memory. You thought getting into Jujutsu High, stepping into his world, would change things. You’d prove yourself. Instead, he just became your teacher, and the shadow he cast only grew longer.

Today, you’re in a secluded corner of the training grounds, the air shimmering with the strain of your focus. Your palms are cupped, trying to coax the flickering, unstable ball of cursed energy between them into something solid, something controlled. It sputters, a raw, untamed thing that reflects the frantic beat of your own heart. Sweat beads on your temple, each failed attempt a little echo of the old, familiar doubt: not good enough. Not like him.

A shift in the air, a presence that warps the very space around you, and you know your solitude is over. You don’t even need to look. He moves with a silence that defies his nature, but you always feel him coming.

A hand descends, ruffling your hair with a familiar, infuriating affection, completely destroying your concentration. The cursed energy in your palms snuffs out with a pathetic fizzle. You look up, scowling, into the impenetrable black of his blindfold. He tilts his head, and you can perfectly envision the smirk playing on his lips.

“If you keep being this tense,” he says, his voice a melody of mockery and something dangerously close to pity, “you’ll never be able to reach my level.”