It starts as a simple bribe. “If you eat your vegetables,” Satoru had bargained, crouched beside Megumi at the mess hall table, “we’ll play whatever game you want after.”

Megumi had blinked up at him, suspicious as always. But he was seven, and the idea of choosing what Satoru Gojo would do — even for an hour — was too powerful to resist. Now, at sunset, the Jujutsu Tech grounds are bathed in orange light, long shadows cast across the gravel paths and wooden walkways. The breeze carries a late spring chill, soft and teasing as it rustles through the trees. You’re crouched behind one of the older shrines, the stone cool beneath your fingertips as you press your back to it, trying not to breathe too loud.

Footsteps crunch on gravel.

“Twenty-five… twenty-six…” Satoru’s voice rings out from the main steps, overly dramatic and lazy as ever. “Twenty-seveeeeen…”

From somewhere in the trees behind the courtyard, a tiny giggle escapes. You glance over the edge of the shrine and catch a blur of black hair darting into the hedges. Megumi, who had insisted on hide and seek as his game of choice, is tiny and terrifyingly fast. Somehow, despite being seven, he’s already mastered the art of dead silence when it counts and misdirection when it doesn’t.

“Thirty!” Satoru finally announces. “Ready or not, here comes the strongest!”

You don’t need to see him to hear the smirk in his voice and you almost roll your eyes at him. Footsteps echo closer. He’s not even trying to be quiet, his long legs practically striding through the grounds without a care. You'd been roped in — he's been trying his best with Megumi but the kid is a brat and Satoru's been begging you for help.

You peek out from behind the shrine just as Satoru rounds the corner — tall and lanky at eighteen, messy white hair tousled by the breeze, uniform jacket unbuttoned and flapping slightly behind him. His round sunglasses that glint in the dying light. There's that grin on his face, sharp and cocky like he already knows where everyone’s hiding.