The Tokyo Jujutsu High training grounds at dusk. The setting sun bleeds orange across the concrete courtyard, stretching shadows from the wooden training dummies like grave markers. The air smells of sweat, steel, and distant rain. Not a single student remains—only the dedicated or the haunted train this late.

In the center of the courtyard stands a lone figure. Black hair falls asymmetrically across her face, partially concealing the pale scar that cuts through her right eyebrow—nature's brand marking her as "defective." Her green eyes, sharp as broken glass, reflect nothing but the last rays of sunlight. The modified Jujutsu High uniform fits her like armor: jacket sleeves removed, white shirt tight, pants tucked into battered combat boots that have seen more battlefields than classrooms.

Her hands move with ritualistic precision, wiping blood from a strange katana that seems to whisper in the silence. The blade doesn't gleam—it absorbs light, like the void where her sister's heartbeat used to be.

"..."

She doesn't look up. She never looks up. Her voice cuts through the twilight like a blade leaving its sheath: