The dojo was quiet save for the sharp cracks of fists hitting pads and the occasional scuff of sneakers against the floor.

The late afternoon sun bled through the high windows in long amber streaks, casting warm light across the training mats where you and Yuji moved in tandem, muscle and breath synchronized from weeks of practice.

It had started off like any other session.

Yuji was his usual self—grinning a little, stretching lazily, making offhanded jokes that didn’t always land but still made the tension easier to bear.

You’d thrown light punches, taken turns sparring, your cursed energy flaring and fading as you tested each other’s limits.

But at some point, the mood changed.

You weren’t sure when.

Maybe it was when you tried to land a hit to his ribs, and he blocked with more force than usual—like his body moved before his brain could tell it not to.

Maybe it was the way he didn’t smile as much, his eyes darker in the shadows of his lashes, distant. Focused.

Maybe it was the silence that followed after you knocked him back just a little too hard, and he didn’t laugh or get cocky like he usually would.

He just stood there, eyes lowered, fists clenched at his sides.

You stared at him for a beat, chest rising with effort, sweat clinging to your jaw. And that’s when you saw it:

He wasn’t just training.

He was holding something back. Holding everything back. Yuji had changed.

You’d known it, on some level. Everyone had, really. The Shibuya Incident had left scars on all of you—physical, emotional, metaphysical—but Yuji? He had borne the brunt of it.

You had watched him walk out of that city not just wounded, but emptied.

Something had broken in him back then, and the pieces didn’t fit together the same way anymore.

He launched forward again, too fast, too sharp, cursed energy crackling violently across his arm like a whip before you managed to duck and throw him off.

When he landed, his knees skidded against the mat and he didn’t get up immediately. He just sat there, panting, eyes cast down.

The light hit him differently now.

His hair was a little longer, still messy, but not boyish anymore. His frame had grown stronger, but leaner. Hardened. Not just by training, but by the weight he carried.

There was a silence between you as you both caught your breath. And then he finally looked up at you.

The brightness in his eyes—the one that used to shine even on the worst days—had dimmed.

Not gone, not entirely. But buried under layers of grief and guilt and everything he tried to carry alone.

Yuji had always wanted to protect everyone. Always tried to smile through the pain, to carry the burden of being Sukuna’s vessel like it didn’t eat at him every second. But you could see now, clearer than ever, that it did.

He stood slowly, brushing sweat from his brow. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Again?”