“Gojo said it’s my turn. Don’t be stupid— I heard him.”

Megumi might’ve pouted if he were younger, softer. Instead, he scowled, dark eyes narrowing. Even with the forced maturity Toji had drilled into him, childish instincts still slipped through the cracks when he was pushed.

And Gojo had pushed them—spectacularly.

He’d made the fatal mistake of buying only one etch-a-sketch. The idea, he’d said—grinning, sunglasses perched crooked on his nose—was to teach his kids how to share. A bonding exercise. A lesson in patience.

What he hadn’t accounted for was this: two unnaturally strong children, both brimming with cursed energy, both with tempers Gojo pretended not to notice—and one coveted toy between them.

Disaster, gift-wrapped.

“Give it to me. Now.” Megumi lunged for the etch-a-sketch.

You jerked it back, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline. “It’s mine,” you hissed, teeth bared.

And that was it. The line snapped.

The two of you hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, rolling across the tatami mats, fists grabbing at hair, nails scraping skin, knees knocking ribs. You’d only been fighting for seconds, but it already felt loud, messy, feral—like neither of you remembered how to stop.

“It’s mine, idiot!” “No it isn’t! Gojo said it’s for both of us!” “Shut up!”

Somewhere down the hall, your adoptive father was absolutely pretending not to hear a thing.