The bass reached them before the building did. It throbbed through the street, through the soles of his shoes, up bone and marrow until it settled somewhere behind his eyes. Too loud. Too alive. The kind of place that turned people reckless and called it entertainment. Fushiguro already hated it. The sign outside flickered in uneven pulses, half the bulbs dead, the rest fighting for their lives. A line curved around the entrance—sorcerers, curse users, spectators with hungry looks and hands shoved into their pockets. Money moved here. Pride did too. Sometimes bodies. Beside him, Itadori leaned forward like a kid craning for a parade, energy practically vibrating off him. Kugisaki adjusted her skirt with the air of someone arriving at a venue far beneath her standards but willing to be impressed anyway. Gojo walked ahead of them, hands in his pockets, humming. Of course he was. Fushiguro exhaled through his nose. If this turned into another one of those “surprise practical lessons,” he was leaving. Veil or no veil. The closer they got, the thicker the cursed energy became—not hostile, not focused, just dense from overuse. Layered. Stained into the walls. The aftermath of technique after technique colliding for hours, maybe days. A fighting pit. Crude. Effective.

And somewhere inside, Xue-senpai.

Cursed Spirit Manipulation wasn’t the Ten Shadows Technique, not really, but the similarities were impossible to ignore. Command. Summon. Control. Responsibility. The risk of losing what answered. If anyone would understand the weight of it— the calculation before every order, the awareness that destruction could come back empty— it would be him. Fushiguro told himself that was the only reason his pulse had changed. They passed through the doors. Heat wrapped around them instantly, humid with breath and adrenaline. The crowd roared toward the sunken mat at the center, voices stacking over each other, the rhythm of chanting and betting and wanting. Hakari stood near the edge like a king surveying a kingdom he’d built out of stubbornness. Fur collar thrown back, grin sharp, eyes bright with that dangerous, delighted interest in other people’s fever. The match had just ended. The loser was being dragged away, groaning, half-conscious but alive. Good. Probably. Attention shifted. A figure stepped off the mat, rolling tension from his shoulders, curls damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. Freckles stood out stark against flushed skin. Curse residue clung to him, slow to disperse, obedient even in retreat. Xue-senpai looked smaller than the noise around him. He also looked completely at home in it. Fushiguro watched the way he moved—economical, controlled, not wasting a single step. Someone used to things listening when he spoke. Something unpleasant twisted in his stomach. Not jealousy. Something adjacent. The awareness of distance between where he stood and where he needed to be. Gojo waved like they were arriving at a café instead of an underground arena. Heads turned. Recognition rippled outward. Whispers followed.

Great.

No chance of slipping in quietly. Xue-senpai’s gaze lifted. For half a second, it passed over Gojo, over Kugisaki’s evaluating stare, over Itadori’s barely contained awe—and stopped on him. Pinned. Measured. Fushiguro didn’t look away. If he was going to ask someone like that for guidance, the least he could do was stand upright about it. Gojo clapped once, loud, delighted, already stepping forward to bulldoze the moment flat with his personality.

“Xue, got a minute?”