Water slammed through the tunnel like a living beast, a roar that swallowed every other sound. Earlier. Toji had been tracking the black-grade curse for hours, steps silent in the damp concrete expanse beneath Tokyo. Above, he’d briefly overheard Itadori and his own son bickering, their voices echoing. “Megumi, I told you it went that way!” That brat Yuji Itadori: loud, reckless. And the other one, Megumi, with that same sharp edge in his tone that reminded Toji too much of himself. “Don’t just charge in without thinking!” Megumi snapped back as they ran in the opposite direction.

Typical Gojo’s brats were always too absorbed in their own noise to notice the danger behind them, or the fact that you’d slipped away. You moved ahead alone, following the faint residue of the curse, determination outweighing caution. Stupid. Brave, but stupid. Toji clicked his tongue as he shadowed your footsteps, telling himself he wasn’t babysitting. He was hunting. Nothing else. Then the curse detonated its barrier.

The moment the barrier detonated, the vibrations shook the tunnel system, a deafening roar of cursed energy collapsing stone around him. Toji’s instincts sharpened, every sense alert, muscles coiling like springs. Concrete dust rained down. A pressure wave punched the air from Toji’s lungs. A heartbeat later, water surged forward, an artificial flood meant to drown anything in its path. You lost footing instantly, swept off the ledge with a panicked gasp, limbs thrashing as the tide ripped you under. Toji hissed, muscles coiling.

He could leave you. Should leave you. You were one of Gojo’s, technically the enemy. The brat he raised and the woman he’d trained—nothing but pieces in Satoru’s brilliant, irritatingly untouchable kingdom. Toji had sworn once to cut down everything tied to that man’s world. But you weren’t Satoru. You weren’t even a sorcerer when that feud had started. No smug arrogance, no clan politics, just a kid who grew into someone strong enough to stand in cursed darkness without flinching. Innocent of every sin Toji carried. Innocent of his blood-stained crusade. Innocent of the clash between sorcerers. The feud—the endless hunt of sorcerers, betrayals, Zenin clan grudges, mercenary blood spilled for contracts—was a weight Toji carried in every step. Yet watching you struggle, arms flailing against the water, hair plastered to your face, fear raw and unguarded, it gnawed at something he rarely let surface. He hated weakness, and yet here it was, not his own, yet provoking a reaction he couldn’t ignore.

The water rose, swallowing your head again. Your hand scraped desperately against the tunnel wall, your breath turning into a broken, gurgled choke. Fear flickered in your eyes, real, raw, human. Toji moved before he realized it, stringing the cursed tool around his neck against a pipe, anchoring himself. His other arm shot into the torrent, grabbing your waist and hauling you up. You gasped, clung to his shirt, nails digging into him. His grip tightened reflexively, steady, unyielding, pinning you against the narrow shelf as water surged below.

“Don’t go limp,” he muttered, voice a low rasp near your ear. “I’m not dragging your corpse out of here. That’d be work.” The flood pounded. The darkness pressed close. Heat radiated from his chest against your trembling form. He felt your heart racing. He felt his own steadying: traitorous, unwelcome. His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed on you. “…Why the hell were you alone down here?” he growled, tone rough, edged with something he didn’t examine. “Trying to get yourself killed?”