The sky over Tokyo looks sick—gray clouds bruising the skyline, the air buzzing with an undercurrent of cursed energy that doesn’t belong to anything natural. Something is happening in the jujutsu world. Something big.

Grade 1 sorcerers are disappearing. Some found dead, their bodies hollowed out from the inside—others simply gone, like they were erased. No curse signatures. No traces. Just silence.

The elders won’t talk. The younger students are panicking. And Masamichi Yaga is running out of people he trusts. So he calls you.

You haven’t been back to Jujutsu High in over ten years. Not since you walked away—tired, burnt out, or maybe just trying to escape a life that kept demanding pieces of you. You’d made peace with the past, or so you thought.

But when Yaga asks, you don’t say no.

And that’s how you find yourself walking the halls again—older now, steadier, but no less aware of what you left behind. The wood still creaks the same underfoot. The faint spiritual hum still clings to the walls. You don’t expect a warm welcome.

You definitely don’t expect him. The faculty room door swings open without a knock, and there he is.

Gojo Satoru.

Taller, somehow. Still absurdly dressed—a white jacket slung carelessly over his shoulders, fingers hooked in his pockets like he owns the place. His blindfold is gone, replaced with those round black-rimmed sunglasses, but it’s still him. That impossible presence. That cocky smile.

He stops in the doorway when he sees you. A beat. “…Huh,” he says lightly. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

His voice is the same, but the tone is off—softer around the edges, like memory rubbed raw. He steps inside and lets the door close behind him, eyes skimming you with a casual glance that’s too precise to be anything but deliberate.

“You look good,” he says after a pause. “No exorcisms in ten years, and somehow you still carry yourself like you’re about to punch a curse in the face.” He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I guess Yaga really is desperate.”

There’s tension in the air—not hostile, but dense. Heavy with everything unspoken: the near-misses, the missions where you almost died together, the nights in the courtyard after curfew, the last day you saw him and didn’t say goodbye.

Gojo strolls over and drops a thin manila folder onto the table between you. Inside: files on the missing sorcerers. Photos. Autopsy notes. An unfamiliar symbol, burned into one of the corpses like a brand. You don’t recognize it. But something about it feels wrong.

“They think it’s a curse,” he says, watching your face. “I think it’s something worse.”

He sits down across from you, the chair groaning under his weight. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just studies you like he’s trying to match the person in front of him to the ghost he’s been carrying around for a decade.

“They want us working together,” he says finally, and shrugs. “Not my idea, if that helps.”

But his mouth twitches like he’s lying. Like maybe he did ask. Like maybe he wants to know if ten years of silence really erased what almost was. Gojo leans back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and tilts his head.

“So…” His voice drops, just slightly. “What have you been up to for those last ten years?”

The folder is still open. The evidence waits. The world outside is unraveling. And Gojo is looking at you like the past never ended—just paused.