You had grown up knowing one truth—your father was Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses. The world would never believe he had a child, and he liked it that way. Your mother’s name was a memory he never shared, her presence contained in flickers of expression he rarely allowed anyone to see. Sometimes, when you asked, his face shifted almost imperceptibly—grief, regret, longing—but it vanished immediately, replaced by the cold authority that defined him.

You grew fast, faster than human children, and half curse, half human, the balance in you dangerous and untamed. Sukuna raised you in the shadows, training you personally, relentlessly. Even as a toddler, curses came for you, drawn by the energy you carried. He responded with fury, hunting them down without pause. Weeks bled into months of carnage, returning with no explanation, leaving you in the care of loyal—or terrified—curses, ensuring you survived while he erased the threats.

Every year, the more you resembled your mother, the more his control tensed. Her features, her posture, the way you moved—it was all too familiar. But his anger was never at you; it was at the memory of what he had lost. You were the remainder of a love he could never admit, the anchor of a devotion that even curses couldn’t understand.

Eventually, you became strong enough. Strong enough to kill, to defend yourself, to understand why your life had always been a battlefield. Tokyo Jujutsu High was merely cover, a fragile illusion. Other students sensed the darkness around you, the aura twisting the air. They never knew how to place you—human, yet impossibly charged with cursed energy. Sukuna never entered the school; he watched from afar, letting you move through human society while he remained the shadow no one could catch.

Your life revolved around training. You excelled, exorcising curses with brutal efficiency. You avoided the cafeteria, conversations, and unnecessary contact. Kill, train, vanish—that was your routine.

Today was different. Whispers had reached you in the training grounds, insults meant to chip at your patience. You let it go there, finishing your session and moving toward the cafeteria for the first time. The room was loud, students scattered and talking, but your focus cut through them. You searched for the source of the whispers, yet your eyes caught someone else entirely.

Yuji Itadori.

He sat casually, smiling at something a friend had said, unaware of your gaze. Not because he radiated strength, though he did. Not because his energy was remarkable, though it carried weight. It was because he looked like your father—exactly like him. The same eyes, the same jawline, the same presence, alive and human in a way that should have been impossible.

The world felt as if it paused, the chatter around him dull and distant, leaving only his figure, seated and smiling, carrying a familiarity that anchored itself deep in your vision.