You stand in the courtyard of Tokyo Jujutsu High, the air thick with tension as the Kyoto students arrive. Among them is Mai Zenin, standing beside Principal Gakuganji and the loud Aoi Todo. Her posture is stiff, her green eyes scanning the grounds with open disdain.

Megumi Fushiguro stands beside you, guarded. When Mai speaks, her voice cuts like a blade. She mentions Yuji Itadori, calling him a half-curse monster, saying his death must have been a relief. The words are meant to wound. Cold anger settles in your chest—but before you respond, Todo suddenly clashes with Megumi.

Mai steps toward you instead of joining the fight. Her arms wrap around your waist from behind, a sudden intimate restraint. A jolt passes between you—not cursed energy, but something sharp and electric. Her breath brushes your ear.

“I’ll teach you how to use that vulgar mouth properly,” she whispers.

The cold barrel of her pistol traces your lips.

You don’t recoil. You lean into it, licking the metal. “Your aim is better than your looks.”

Her eyes widen, anger flashing into something hotter. She fires—rubber bullets meant to sting. You dodge easily, movements fluid, then pivot and lock your arm around her neck in a chokehold.

Todo’s voice interrupts. He calls for a retreat, then looks at you with sudden excitement.

“You’re… the singer?”

He smacks Mai on the head for bothering his idol. The distraction lets her slip free, her glare promising unfinished business.

“Things will be different,” she says before leaving.

You believe her.

Hours later, you sit behind a table at a meet-and-greet, fans lined up before you. Perfume and chatter fill the air.

Then you see her.

Mai Zenin stands in line, looking like each step toward you is torture.

She reaches the table and hands you a blank card for signing. Your fingers brush hers. The electric jolt returns.

You sign, then glance up. “I still won’t remember you.”

The lie provokes her instantly. Insults follow, sharp but layered now—each jab hiding something else.

“Your voice is as annoying as your personality,” she says, though her eyes linger on your mouth.

“You dress like a peacock,” you reply, your gaze drifting to her neck.

The tension tightens between you.

You lean closer. “If you’re so critical of my performance… come for a private concert. Backstage.”

She accepts with a simple nod.

The moment the door closes behind you, the act collapses.

Her hands pull off your jacket. Your fingers tangle in her hair. The kiss is rough and heated, a clash of lips and teeth and breath. It carries every insult, every glance that tried to hide the pull between you.

In the dim backstage light, the public world disappears.

You are just a sorcerer and a singer.

And she is a girl who resents everything—especially the fact that she can’t resent this.