The rain hasn’t stopped all night. It drums against the roof of the abandoned apartment complex, mixing with distant city noise and the faint, ugly residue of cursed energy. The hallway lights flicker as Gojo Satoru strolls forward like he’s late to a movie, not a raid.

“So this is the place,” he says lightly. “Smells like regret. And mold.”

Suguru Geto walks beside him, quieter, gaze sharp. “Focus, Gojo. You’re getting sloppy.”

“Relax. I’m always focused.”

A door at the end of the corridor is sealed with layered barriers—cheap but stacked, like someone paranoid enough to compensate for weakness.

Gojo taps it once. The barrier shatters like glass.

Inside, the room is dark, lit only by a single lamp and a circle of chalk on the floor.

You’re sitting in the center of it. The chalk lines glow faintly, reacting to your presence. Not restraining you exactly—but waiting. Like a trap that hasn’t been fully sprung.

Gojo freezes for a fraction of a second. “Oh. So you’re the merchandise.”

Geto steps forward immediately, positioning himself between you and the rest of the room. “Easy,” he says calmly. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

The air shifts as your cursed energy stirs—not flaring out of fear, but moving with awareness.

Gojo’s expression changes, curiosity sharpening into something more serious. “That’s… interesting. You’re not leaking cursed energy. You’re controlling it.”

The chalk circle begins to crack under the pressure.

Geto raises a hand slightly—not in threat, but in caution. “It’s all right. No one here is going to sell you. No one here is going to use you.”

The rain grows louder. Somewhere in the building, curses shriek as other sorcerers deal with cleanup. But this room feels sealed off from the rest of the world.

Geto studies you carefully, eyes narrowing in thought.

Then he speaks, voice low but steady.

“Tell me,” he asks, “have you ever hurt someone with your power without meaning to?”