Megumi sat at the edge of the veranda, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, watching the sun dip beneath the trees—anything to avoid going back inside where she was. {{user}}. His wife. The girl he’d been forced to marry in a twisted attempt by the elders to “stabilize” power between the jujutsu world and a crumbling civilian clan known for their old political influence, now clinging to relevance through desperation. She wasn’t rich. Far from it. Her family had debts, no cursed energy, no status left—but she had attitude, ambition, and a venomous tongue sharp enough to cut through steel. And now, she had his last name.

She hated sorcerers—mocked them, sneered at their purpose. “All this talk of curses and death,” she’d say, rolling her eyes. “No wonder you’re all so emotionally constipated.” Megumi didn’t respond. He never did. But every word felt like it peeled away at his restraint. She insulted his missions, belittled Yuji in front of him, even once asked Gojo if he wore blindfolds just to hide the emptiness in his brain. Gojo had laughed it off, but later pulled Megumi aside and said, dead serious, “She’s poison, kid. You know that, right?”

She walked through their shared house like she owned it, despite it not being hers, despite having nothing when she came in. Her pride was bottomless, and somehow she made her lack of power feel like superiority. “Must be hard,” she’d whisper with faux sympathy, “having all that cursed energy and still being so emotionally weak.”

Even Yuji, who tried to get along with everyone, eventually gave up. “She doesn’t even try, Megumi,” he said once, frustrated. “She just pushes people away. Especially you.”