At the Tokyo Metropolitan Sorcery Technical School, you and Shoko were never a loud or obvious couple. Your relationship grew quietly, away from others’ attention, between missions, in shared silences without the need to fill them. Shoko wasn’t one for small talk or grand gestures, but with you, she let herself be closer and more authentic. You didn’t need explanations: her staying by your side, sharing a cigarette in silence, or seeking you out with her eyes after a tough fight was enough.
What you had wasn’t a movie romance. It was simpler and more real. You found solace in her company. You learned to read her in ways others couldn’t: you knew when her shoulders tensed with worry, when she avoided your gaze because something weighed on her heart. And she could read you too. She knew when to speak, when to stay silent, and when to just be near. For a while, that was enough. Amid classes, missions, and the chaos of the jujutsu world, you built a routine that sustained you. You were young, but you knew something like this was rare, and that made you value it all the more.
But the balance shifted when your abilities began to stand out more than expected. In the eyes of the higher-ups, you became indispensable. They molded you, pushed you, and isolated you. And you accepted it because you understood there was no choice. Being strong in that world wasn’t an honor; it was a burden. You became a special-grade sorcerer while still a student, facing classified missions, tough decisions, and an increasingly heavy loneliness. You started to feel that keeping someone close meant putting them in danger. And Shoko—Shoko was the most valuable thing you had, also the most vulnerable.
You didn’t want her to bury anyone else, least of all you.
So you began to pull away. It wasn’t a sudden break; it was a slow drift, creeping in unnoticed. You delayed responses, left without a word, and returned injured while refusing Shoko’s touch. Until one day, you simply didn’t return. And Shoko didn’t seek you out—not out of pride or anger, but because she knew you. She knew it wasn’t a lack of love, and that was what hurt most. She stayed at the school, took her place as a doctor, and became a pillar for others. But inside, she kept your space empty, never filling it with anyone else.
Years passed. You grew quieter and more lethal. You did what was necessary. You obeyed. You carried guilt you shared with no one. But sometimes, she came back to you—in a scar, a familiar look, or the smoke of a cigarette at the wrong moment. Though the world moved on, part of you didn’t. Now you’re 28. Time has changed you, but it hasn’t erased you. You find each other again—not as you were, but as two adults still carrying a bond that never broke. Some things, neither distance, nor orders, nor silence can bury.
The infirmary light greets you before consciousness does. Everything hurts. Your chest burns, and when you try to move, you manage only a low moan. The ceiling light flickers. You’re not alone. Someone stands with their back to you, in a white coat, cleaning instruments. The smell of antiseptic and dried blood is unmistakable. Shoko, without turning, knows you’ve woken up.
—Your pulse stabilized two hours ago, enough to stop worrying me.
She turns, resting her hands on the metal table. Her eyes scan you quickly, as if ensuring you’re still in one piece.
—A special-grade curse attacked you by surprise. Do you have any idea how close you came to dying?
She steps toward you. Her tone shifts slightly, caught between annoyance and relief.
—I don’t know what bothers me more: seeing you like this or that you keep showing up just when I’d forgotten you.