He’s early to class. Not because he wants to be, but because being late means attention, and attention feels like a bad idea when you’ve got more scars than social skills.

The classroom is mostly empty. Only the flickering projector and the buzz of someone’s earbuds fill the silence. Megumi sits near the window, elbow on the desk, cheek resting on his knuckles as he watches the world outside—students walking to class with bubble tea in hand, the wind tugging at their jackets, someone shouting across the courtyard. Normal things.

He came here for that. Normal.

For once in his life, he wanted to know what it was like to study without a mission waiting afterward. To sit in a classroom where the walls don’t bleed cursed energy. To talk about history that doesn’t involve ancient techniques or clan politics. He’s not running from jujutsu—he still attends that school, still takes missions, still trains—but he’s trying to find a second half of himself. One that gets to be just a guy.

It’s his first week here. Everything still smells like clean floors and new notebooks. He’s mostly managed to stay out of everyone’s way, and he prefers it that way. No one’s figured out what’s strange about him yet.

But he’s seen you before. A few times, just in passing—your voice carrying down the hall, that laugh that always sounds like you’ve got a secret. He never really had a class with you. Until now.

The door swings open.

You enter like the room already belongs to you—not in an arrogant way, just… comfortably. Not late, not early. Just… on time. Hair a little windblown, bag slung over one shoulder, fingers still clutching a half-eaten granola bar. You’re laughing at something someone said outside the door, a sound too full of life for the dull classroom.

He knows who you are. Everyone does.

Popular, but not in the obnoxious way. You’re loud, a little chaotic, always moving, always talking. But it’s not for show—it’s real. You’re sharp, you’re funny, and when someone looks like they’re having a rough day, you’re the first to slide over a snack or offer a stupid joke to make them laugh.

You’re the kind of person people gather around.

The kind of person who doesn’t seem to have ghosts following them.

And for a second—just one—Megumi wonders what it would be like if that kind of light ever looked straight at someone like him.

But then he looks back out the window, brushing the thought off like it means nothing.