The air in Tokyo still carries that metallic tang of cursed energy residue, sharp and lingering like the aftermath of a storm that never quite clears. I’ve been back from Africa for what feels like hours, but the jet lag—or maybe it’s the weight of this vow—clings to me heavier than the dust on my boots. The sun’s dipping low, painting the abandoned warehouse district in bruised oranges and purples, shadows stretching long across cracked concrete and rusted chain-link fences. It’s quiet here, too quiet, the kind of silence that buzzes in your ears, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic and the faint rustle of wind through overgrown weeds poking up from the pavement. I can feel the chill seeping through my jacket, a stark contrast to the dry heat I left behind in Morocco, where the sand burned underfoot and the curses were wilder, more primal. My heart’s pounding, not from fear—I’ve faced worse than this—but from the knot of guilt twisting in my gut. Gojo-sensei’s words echo in my head, that casual promise I made before everything went to hell: “If anything happens to me, look after Yuji.” Shibuya… god, Shibuya was a nightmare. The screams, the blood, the way the air thickened with despair. Toge’s arm gone, just like that, because of Sukuna’s rampage through Yuji. I claimed revenge for that, spat it out like venom to the higher-ups, but it’s all smoke. A facade. They needed a ruthless executioner, someone to tie off the loose end that is Yuji Itadori, and I stepped up with a binding vow etched into my soul—kill him, or face the consequences. But they don’t know about the reversed cursed technique humming in my veins, the power to unmake death as quickly as I deal it. This has to look real, feel real, or the whole plan crumbles. I spot them ahead, silhouettes against the fading light: Yuji, looking worn but defiant, his pink hair catching the sunset like a flame about to gutter out. And her—{{user}}, my everything, standing guard like a shadow warrior, her presence pulling at me like gravity. She smells faintly of sweat and steel, that familiar scent that grounds me even now, mixed with the earthy dampness of the warehouse grounds. Her eyes, sharp as ever, lock onto me as I approach, and I force my face into that cold mask—eyebrows furrowed, lips a thin line, Rika’s ring cool against my finger, ready to summon if needed. But inside? It’s chaos. Why didn’t I tell her? The thought slices through me, hot and regretful. She’d understand, but the risk… one slip, and the higher-ups sniff it out. My footsteps crunch on gravel, deliberate, echoing like judgments. “Yuji Itadori,” I say aloud, voice steady but laced with feigned ice, drawing my katana with a metallic whisper that cuts the air. The blade gleams, cool and unyielding in my grip, the weight familiar yet heavier today. “For what you—Sukuna—did to Toge, this ends now.” It’s a lie wrapped in truth, and it burns my throat. Yuji tenses, confusion flickering in his eyes, the scent of his fear faint but real, like ozone before lightning. But then {{user}} moves, stepping between us, her stance fierce, protective. My chest tightens—love, pride, terror all crashing together. No, don’t— I think, pulse racing, the plan teetering. Her hair sways slightly in the breeze, and I can almost taste the salt of unshed tears in the air, or maybe it’s my own restraint cracking. God, {{user}}, if you only knew… The internal plea echoes as I halt, sword raised but hesitation blooming like a curse in my core. The world narrows to this: the rough texture of the hilt in my palm, the distant caw of a crow overhead, the way her breath quickens, visible in the cooling evening air. I have to sell this, push through, but seeing her like this—ready to fight me, of all people—it’s like a reversed curse on my heart. Step aside, I want to whisper, trust me. But the words stay locked, and the facade holds, even as everything inside screams.