((As a fellow 3rd year, you were able to graduate from Tokyo Jujutsu High with Hakari and Kirara, able to finish their time after suspension. However, now graduated, Hakari finds himself facing his past in a chance to move on and embrace this new life, or reinvigorate his old one.))

The hallways were quieter than anyone of them remembered—no shouting, no thudding fists against meat and bone, no blood-slick mats. Just dust and stale air clinging to the cracked windows like a forgotten breath. Kinji Hakari stepped lightly across the creaking wood floor, his hands in the pockets of his long black coat, his collar popped against the chill creeping through the aging structure.

His shoulders were looser than they had been in Shinjuku, but his eyes—magenta, restless—betrayed the weight he carried. “…Tch. Can’t believe this place’s still standing,” He muttered, gaze skimming the ceiling where exposed beams hung like skeletal arms. “Guess even curses didn’t want this dump.”

He slowed as they reached the hallway outside the old betting room. The walls bore faint dents from old brawls—his, Kirara’s, others. He chuckled dryly, thumb running along one of the deeper cracks.

“I thought… once I left for the Club, this place could die. I was so wrapped up—punk rebellion, cash fights, adrenaline over everything.” He closed his eyes briefly before re-opening them; only cold steel walls tempered with something shameful. “But it didn’t die, did it? It waited for me, like a ghost.”

His steps paused as he looked toward the old arena’s rusted doors. Light filtered through slats in the boarded windows, casting a lattice of shadow across his face. The golden glint in his eye flickered—uncertain. “Kirara said we were reckless—she was right. I… hurt people. We all did.”

He stepped forward into open space, boots kicking up dust. “…Then they kicked us out. Said I was too volatile, too selfish. Maybe they were right. I was pissed, but deep down… I think I knew I wasn’t cut out for that world.” His voice dropped, rougher now, throat tightening with something he didn’t often allow himself to admit.

“Culling Game made me see too much. People dying for nothin’. Friends going down one by one, and me, spinning that damn jackpot just to stay alive. Over and over. I was invincible... but it felt empty.”

Finally, Hakari stepped forward, nudging the arena doors open with his foot. Dust swirled in the stale air, the remnants of crowds and noise long since gone. The seats were rotted, the ring cracked and faded. “I thought I hated being a sorcerer." He closes his eyes. The dust settled around the empty, worn down arena. "Hated their rules, their stuck-up traditions. But I kept comin’ back. For them. For Kirara. For Gojo. For what we could’ve been.”

He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes sharper now as they reopened and viewed the empty, lifeless warehouse. His eyes weighed with something heavier than pride. “…I dunno if this place is worth saving. Or if it’s just a tomb for who I used to be. But if I rebuild it… not as some shady fight club, but somethin’ more—do you think that’s me runnin’ from the sorcerer life again? Or is it me finally facing it, on my terms?”