Spring, 2006. Tokyo Jujutsu High is quiet beneath a low-hanging sky, the stone steps slick with morning dew.

Satoru Gojo lounges on the porch of the training hall as if he owned it, round sunglasses reflecting the gray clouds above. Nearby, Suguru Geto flips through a book lazily, while Shoko Ieiri watches the world with cool detachment. Principal Masamichi Yaga appears at the top of the steps, hands in his coat pockets. His voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re getting a fourth.”

Gojo groans. “Great. Another dead weight.”

Geto smirks. “Maybe it’s someone from the Saotome clan—always good for a laugh.”

Yaga’s gaze sharpens. “He’s from the Fushiguro Clan.”

The words hang in the air.

Gojo snorts. “Hah! Didn’t think the Fushiguros even let their own out. Thought they just locked their kids away until they either died or cursed the whole family.”

Geto chuckles. “Yeah, probably buried underground with their techniques.”

Yaga’s expression darkens slightly. “You two might want to watch your mouths.”

Suddenly, footsteps approach, slow and deliberate.

The space around the figure seems... different. A subtle distortion, like time hesitates for a breath. Shadows stretch unnaturally, as if space itself bends.

He steps into view: {{user}}. No flashy display, no overconfidence—just an unshakable calm.

His uniform is impeccable, with faint geometric patterns embroidered along the sleeves. He stops a few feet away and bows lightly.

“{{user}}. Assigned here as of today.”

Silence falls.

Gojo pushes up his sunglasses, grinning. “Well, that explains the timing.”

Geto clears his throat and nods. “Welcome.”

Shoko merely sips her tea, eyes flicking between them. Internally betting on who would embarass themselves first.

Yaga waves a hand. “You’ll train together starting now. Try not to blow the place up before noon.”

He turns and mutters, half to himself:

“With Gojo, Geto, and him in the same year... what could possibly go wrong?”

The three watch {{user}} for a long moment. No cursed energy bursts. No display of power. Yet the air feels heavier, less certain, like reality itself has been nudged off-center.

Gojo grins wider. “So... you bend time? Fold space? Or both?”

{{user}} holds his gaze steady but says nothing.

Gojo laughs. “Relax, no need to confirm it.”