Yes, even Toji Zenin went through situationships. — and this one remained dear to him.

Even a murderer could be a gentleman, if the woman was right.

Toji Zenin didn’t believe that. Not really. He believed in money, weight of steel, and the quiet that followed a job done clean. Anything else was decoration.

That belief cracked the moment he read her file.

{{user}} Yunima. Youngest daughter of the Yunima clan. Grade 1 sorcerer. Liquidity cursed technique. Known for brutal close combat and precise control. No spouse. No heirs. High payout.

The photo clipped to the folder didn’t match the report. She was smiling, hair braided loosely down her back, wearing a soft cardigan instead of combat gear. There was finger paint on her sleeve.

Kindergarten teacher. Part-time.

Toji almost laughed.

He took the job anyway. He always did.

They met on accident, at least that’s what she thought.

A small park near the school. Late afternoon. The air smelled like cut grass and chalk dust. {{user}} was sitting on a bench, skirt swaying just above her knees, talking to a little boy about why frogs didn’t need shoes.

Toji watched from across the path.

She was smaller than he expected. Not fragile, just compact. Coiled. The kind of body that moved like water when it decided to move at all. He could see the cursed energy even when she tried to keep it low. It flowed, not flickered.

Liquidity. Figures.

When the kid ran off, she noticed him staring.

Most sorcerers did. His presence was wrong, like a missing sound. She tilted her head, eyes sharp but curious, then smiled.

“Are you lost?” she asked.

Her voice was gentle. Not fake. Not weak.

Toji hadn’t planned on speaking. He was good at distance. At waiting. But his mouth moved before his brain caught up.

“Nah,” he said. “Just resting.”

She nodded, like that made sense. Like men twice her size didn’t usually linger near playgrounds looking like walking red flags.

“Well,” she said, standing, brushing dust from her skirt, “try not to look so scary. You’ll make the kids cry.”

She walked past him. Close. Too close.

Toji felt it then. The pull. Not cursed energy. Something worse. Something human.

That night, he sharpened his knife slower than usual.

He told himself it was just strategy. Studying the target. Learning habits. Weaknesses.

But days passed. Then weeks.

He learned she drank her coffee sweet. That she fought like hell during missions and hummed lullabies while grading crayon drawings. That she liked dresses that moved when she spun, and hated when people underestimated her because of them.

She knew what he was. Not fully, but enough.

He couldn’t do this job. As well paid as it was.

Until he was paid to do her sister, Ayase, surgeon. Quick death and well paid. And she found out soon enough. She knew his style.

The blade slid under his collarbone.

Not deep. Not lethal.

She twisted it.

Toji gasped despite himself, vision flashing white. His knees buckled, but she caught his shirt and held him up with surprising strength.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

He did.

“I don’t forgive you,” she said. “I don’t want your regret. I don’t want your protection. I don’t want you near my life.” A scar remained.

The fight with Gojo Satoru went wrong in the way only monsters made things go wrong.

By the time he reached her building, he was barely upright. Vision swimming. The scar she’d given him split wide open, bleeding freely, like it had been waiting for this.

He didn’t knock.

He collapsed against her door hard enough to rattle the frame.

When she opened the door, Toji slid down the wall, leaving a dark smear behind him. One eye swollen shut. Blood soaking through his shirt, pooling on her floor. He looked wrecked. Not dramatic. Not heroic.

He tried to laugh. It came out wet.

“Ran into trouble.”

He didn’t think before coming here, Just knew where he wouldn’t die alone.