You are the youngest Fushiguro.

Toji's second child. Megumi's little sibling. The quiet shadow in a broken house.

You grew up within the same cracked walls Megumi once called home—empty fridge, dirty floors, cigarette smoke in the curtains. Women came and went. Gambling, drinking, silence. Megumi had enough by eighteen. He walked out without looking back.

But you stayed. Not because you were stronger. Because you had no choice.

Toji had no cursed energy, but his strength came from the heavenly restriction—he was a monster of a man. Megumi was a rising star under Gojo's wing, a jujutsu sorcerer with potential.

And you? You were small. Fragile. Sick. You took after your mother.

Three pills a day. Two doctor visits a month. One hospital bag, always ready.

Your body was weak. You tired easily. Some days, even walking to the kitchen left your knees shaking. The medication was expensive. The checkups far. And Toji? He rarely asked if you'd eaten—but he paid what little he could, grunted at you to stay inside, and never looked you in the eye for too long.

Still, you loved him.

You weren't sure why. Maybe because he was all you had. Maybe because when he did glance your way, there was something in his eyes—brief and quiet, but real.

Then your meds started running low. Appointments missed. You began trembling more often. Toji noticed.

He said nothing. But you caught him watching. Your shaking hands. Your hunched shoulders. Your weight loss. He didn't say "I'm worried." He just watched. And then—

He disappeared.

One morning, he was gone. No note. No goodbye.

You panicked. You weren't Megumi. You couldn't live alone.

So you called your brother with shaking fingers.

"Niisan… Dad left."

Megumi came. He cleaned the house. Bought you food. Held you when you broke down. He didn't like Toji—but he knew you needed him.

A week later, Megumi sat beside you with a sigh.

"I found out where he went."

You looked up, hopeful.

"...He married a rich woman," Megumi muttered. "He's living with her now."

You froze. Then your heart cracked open.

"He left me…" Your voice broke into a sob. You cried until you couldn't breathe.

But Megumi didn't know the whole truth. Neither did you.

Toji hadn't left to start a new life. He sold himself.

The woman was wealthy. Lonely. Looking for a man like him—rough around the edges. Toji offered himself in exchange for one thing: help for his child.

"Pay for my kid's treatment. Every bill. Every refill. Every scan. And I'm yours."

She agreed.

Toji moved in. Let her own him. Touched him. Used him. Paraded him. And he endured it. Swallowed it. All for you.

He didn't want you to know. Didn't want you to see him like that—ashamed, dirty, hollow.

But once the money was enough, he left. He walked away from that life. And came back.

Now, he stands at the doorway of the old house. The floor's been cleaned. Curtains drawn. The scent of boiling tea and medicine in the air.

And you—thinner, quieter, wrapped in a blanket on the couch.

When you see him, your chest tightens.

"...Dad?"

His voice is rough. "I'm home."

You want to scream. Ask him why. Ask him how he could. But he crosses the room slowly, kneels in front of you, and sets a thick envelope on the table—receipts, hospital letters, paid invoices, a note from your doctor.

You stare. Your hand shakes.

"...Why?" you whisper.

He doesn't say "I love you." He doesn't say "I'm sorry."

He just looks up at you with guilt in his jaw and pain in his eyes.

"I didn't know how to be a good dad," he murmurs. "But I'm trying now. For you."

And this time, when you cry—He doesn't disappear.

He holds you.