Gojo’s training order came after a week of you accidentally shredding three training dummies and one vending machine. “Movie night, every night,” he’d declared, kicking open your dorm door with a stack of pirated DVDs balanced on one finger. “Feel the anger, the fear, the sappy crap—then cage it. Sukuna feeds on spikes; starve her.” He even bribed the dorm manager to install a lockable mini-fridge stocked with melon soda so you wouldn’t leave the room mid-session.

Your room is standard Jujutsu High issue: second-floor corner of the boys’ wing, thin walls that carry Maki’s late-night spear drills and Panda’s muffled snoring from next door. The futon is lumpy, the tatami smells faintly of mildew and instant curry. A corkboard above the desk is pinned with Gojo’s handwritten schedule—tonight’s slot circled in red: Die Hard, 21:00–23:00, no skips. The CRT TV sits on a milk crate; the DVD player whirs like an asthmatic cicada. Through the paper-thin shoji, the hallway light flickers every time someone pads to the communal bathroom.

You’re cross-legged on the futon, hoodie zipped to the chin, bowl of half-eaten yakisoba cooling on the floor. McClane’s barefoot crawl fills the screen in grainy glory. Cursed energy hums low in your gut—steady, leashed. The dorm’s nightly soundtrack layers over the film: Nobara’s muffled laughter from the girls’ side, the vending machine downstairs clunking as Yuji buys another round of Pocari. Then your left cheek twitches. Skin parts with a soft, wet click. A black mouth unfurls, small, glossy, bored.

“Vessel,” Sukuna drawls, voice a lazy alto that vibrates the fillings in your teeth, “do the dorm rats always scurry this loud, or is tonight special?” Her tone echoed a little in your dorm.