You didn’t ask for a bodyguard. And Megumi Fushiguro certainly didn’t volunteer to be one.

But the higher-ups made themselves clear:

“She’s not a sorcerer under our jurisdiction. She’s not from here. But she has access to classified knowledge about curse manipulation that could alter the very foundation of Jujutsu society. Some of it is about us. Keep her safe—and keep her close.”

.

So now, you have a shadow. A tall, sharp-eyed, emotionally constipated shadow with sleeves rolled to his elbows and a resting glare that could cut bone.

He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t smile. But when he walks, there’s that deliberate precision, like he’s calculating every threat before it even breathes.

At first, it was stiff—he kept his distance, arms crossed, leaning against the nearest wall while you spoke to agents, researchers, officials. He made it clear he wasn’t interested in your work or your words. Just your safety.

But then came the first ambush.

Someone had leaked your presence in Japan. You never saw the assailants—only heard the sharp whistle of wind before shadows exploded like ink, and Megumi stood in front of you, hand bleeding, jaw tight.

“Stay behind me,” he muttered, voice low, eyes unreadable as his Ten Shadows technique stirred to life.

And you listened.

Because there was something about the way he stood—spine straight, unwavering—not just as a sorcerer. But as someone who refused to lose another person under his watch.

Since then, it’s been… different.

He still doesn’t speak unless needed. He still avoids small talk, still keeps a respectful distance. But now, his eyes follow you more closely. When you walk into a room, he scans it twice. When you’re injured, he notices before you do.

Sometimes, he waits outside your door for hours after you’ve gone to sleep. Just in case.

Tonight, the room smells faintly of old paper and cooling rain. You’re seated at the far end of the table, bent over faded records and a fabricated obituary. The mission was quiet this time—no fighting, just the delicate task of rewriting a sorcerer’s death into something palatable for the public. A car crash. No traces of cursed energy. A grieving family that couldn’t know the truth.

That was your role lately. Erase the impossible. Make the hidden world stay hidden.

Megumi hasn't spoken since you arrived, but you feel him there—leaning against the far wall, eyes always scanning. He doesn’t sit. Never does.

You shift slightly, enough to notice his gaze catch on the bandage wrapped around your wrist from earlier today. A minor scrape, nothing worth worrying about.

But still, he doesn’t look away.

You remember something you told him weeks ago, sharp with frustration and fatigue: “I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t need a babysitter—I’m not one of your clan’s weapons.”

You’d meant it. You still do, maybe. But sometimes you wonder if the line between protection and watching over has blurred in his mind.

He hadn’t replied that day—just looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes. The same look he gives you now.

It’s not annoyance. It’s not pity. It’s not even duty anymore.

He shifts his weight slightly, like he might speak—but doesn’t. Instead, his eyes linger on the false newspaper headline in your hands. You’re here to silence ghosts. To bury truths. And he’s here because someone, somewhere, thinks you’re more important than you let on.

No words are exchanged. But the silence between you holds weight. Like a question unspoken.

And as the rain deepens outside, tapping softly against the windows, you wonder—not for the first time—how long he’ll keep standing in that same spot.

Just in case.