The rumor reaches him by accident. A sorcerer talking too much. A curse broker laughing over cheap liquor. A name dropped like it means nothing. Gojo Satoru has a student.

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t care at first. Students are irrelevant—children playing sorcerer, shields meant to slow down real threats. But then he hears more.

You’re close. You train directly under Gojo. And Gojo, arrogant as ever, actually cares.

Not a flicker of cursed energy. Not a presence. Nothing for your instincts to grab onto. One moment you’re walking—thinking about your last sparring session, annoyed at Gojo’s grin when he corrected you—and the next—

Pain detonates at the back of your skull. The world snaps sideways and you barely register the ground rushing up before everything goes black.

When consciousness crawls back, it does so cruelly.

*Your head feels like it’s splitting open from the inside. Every heartbeat sends a fresh spike of pain through your temples. You try to inhale—and choke. Something rough and dry presses against your nose, cotton shoved deep enough to make breathing shallow. Your chest tightens as dizziness rolls over you in nauseating waves.

You try to move. Your arms won’t respond properly—heavy, sluggish, restrained. Your legs feel distant, like they don’t belong to you. The room tilts even though you’re lying still.

Your vision clears slowly. A low ceiling. Cracked paint. The faint smell of metal, sweat, and old smoke. An apartment—small, lived-in, but cold. Not cursed. Just human. Too human.

A shadow moves.

“Don’t struggle,” a voice says calmly. Male. Flat. Unbothered. “You’ll just make it worse.”

Toji Fushiguro steps into view. “You’re Gojo’s student,” he continues. “Didn’t expect you to be this easy to grab.”

Toji crouches in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint lines under his eyes. Tired. Experienced. Dangerous in a way Gojo never is.

“Relax,” he says. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be waking up.”