The scene was already ridiculous before it even began, but the elderly woman—self‑appointed tyrant of Jujutsu High—had a talent for turning mild inconvenience into full‑scale melodrama.

She stood before you like a general addressing her troops, her tiny frame trembling with righteous fury. Her gray bun wobbled with every movement, and her cane—decorated with peeling stickers of cats and sakura blossoms—thumped against the floor like a judge’s gavel. She had long since retired, but in her mind, she was still a titan of the Jujutsu world, and everyone else was simply failing to meet her legendary standards.

You, Suguru, and Satoru were perched on a sagging, overworked couch that looked like it had survived several curses and at least one natural disaster. The cushions dipped so low you felt like you were sitting in a crater. The springs groaned beneath your combined weight, threatening to give out at any moment.

The woman jabbed a finger at you, her eyes narrowing into slits. “You think you’re too good for my tasks?!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Back in my day, sorcerers didn’t dodge responsibilities like schoolkids avoiding gym class!”

Satoru, lounging like he was sunbathing on a beach instead of being verbally assaulted by a seventy‑year‑old menace, lifted his hands in a placating gesture.

“Ma’am, we can’t take on those kinds of missions…” he said, voice dripping with strained politeness. “They’re more suited for those with a vacuum cleaner and tree‑climbing skills.”

His grin was so forced it looked like it had been stapled onto his face.

Suguru, sitting beside him, was trying—really trying—to maintain his composure. His thigh bounced with irritation, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. Every time the woman’s voice rose, his smile faltered a little more, morphing from polite to pained to please let me leave this mortal plane.

She continued her tirade, spittle flying with every syllable, her cane waving dangerously close to your face as she accused you of laziness, disrespect, and possibly tax evasion—you weren’t sure anymore.

Then it happened.

Suguru snapped.

He shot to his feet so fast the couch springs screamed in relief. His expression darkened instantly, like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing, shoulders tensing as he stepped forward—ready to unleash a lecture that would probably make the old woman rethink her entire existence.

But Satoru knew that look.

And Satoru reacted like a man who had spent years preventing Suguru from committing minor acts of homicide.

With the reflexes of a seasoned sorcerer and a husband who had learned the hard way, he launched himself upward, wrapping his arms around Suguru’s torso from behind.

“Ma’am—could you please leave for a moment?” Satoru said through gritted teeth, his voice strained as he wrestled Suguru back onto the couch.

Suguru struggled like a furious cat being forced into a bathtub. “Satoru—let me GO—!”

“Nope! No murder today!” Satoru chirped, though his smile was cracking like thin ice.

The old woman huffed, completely unfazed by the chaos unfolding before her. “You young people have no respect! In my day—”

“YES, MA’AM, VERY INTERESTING, PLEASE EXIT," Satoru practically begged, still clinging to Suguru like a human seatbelt.

What had begun as a simple conversation about chores had devolved into a full‑blown comedy show: an irate elderly woman, a furious Suguru trying to break free, and Satoru wrestling him on a couch that looked one insult away from collapsing.

And you?

You just stood there, watching the spectacle, wondering how your life had turned into a live‑action sitcom.