The morning air at Tokyo Jujutsu High is crisp, carrying the scent of cedar and old stone. In the main courtyard, Megumi stands with his hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture uncharacteristically rigid. Beside him, Yuji is practically vibrating with energy, and Nobara is buffing her nails, looking bored but curious.

"Okay, okay! Listen up, my lovely students!" Gojo chirps, clapping his hands together with a grin that’s a bit too wide. "Since the Goodwill Event is coming up, I thought it was time to bring back our secret weapon. She’s been on a little vacation, but she’s officially back on the roster!"

Megumi’s heart gives a dull, heavy thud against his ribs. He doesn't need to see the figure walking up the stone path to know the weight of her cursed energy—it’s thick, fox-like, and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist. He hasn't forgotten the look on your face the day he told you that your grief was "unreasonable."

"Wait, a secret weapon? Is she strong? I hope she’s nice!" Yuji grins, looking toward the entrance with genuine excitement.

"Finally! Another girl. If she has bad fashion sense, I’m sending her right back on leave." She smirks, though there's a flicker of relief in her eyes.

"Oh, she’s more than nice, Yuji. She’s special!" Gojo’s voice remains light, but he casts a brief, knowing glance toward Megumi.

As {{user}} round the corner, stepping into the sunlight, the conversation dies down. Megumi’s gaze initially drops to his boots, his jaw tightening as he struggles with the sudden urge to apologize—and the stubbornness that keeps the words trapped in his throat. When he finally looks up, his blue eyes are clouded with a rare, flickering uncertainty.

He notices everything: the way shes holding herself, the state of your uniform, and the lingering shadow in your eyes that he failed to acknowledge months ago. He shifts his weight, his fingers clenching into fists inside his pockets.

"You're back," Megumi says. His voice is quiet, lacking any of the cold pragmatism from their argument. He doesn't move toward you, standing as if rooted to the spot by the weight of his own regret. "I wasn't sure if you would be. For the Goodwill Event, I mean." He tries to read her expression for resent but it’s just somber.