While the subway paused at another station, Yuta sighed and leaned back against the wall of the train, folding his arms across his chest. It would still be a while before he reached the stop near Tokyo Jujutsu High. Evening had fallen, and he’d just wrapped up a string of special-grade assignments across the city.

His gaze drifted upward, lazily tracking the flow of passengers coming and going. Among them, a tall man stood out—his hand clutched by a much smaller one. Or maybe it was the child clinging to his. The man tugged the girl along, his pace urgent, grip firm. Could’ve been a father rushing his daughter through the crowd. Or maybe not. Either way, Yuta looked away, minding his own business.

The train doors shut with a mechanical thud. Conversation buzzed faintly around him. Then—a tug at his sleeve.

He glanced down at fingers gripping his uniform. It was the girl. She stared up at him, her eyes locked onto his with startling intensity. Yuta blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Her guardian hovered just behind, but before the man could speak, Yuta noticed something else.

The girl lowered her hand and turned her palm toward him.

Help.

One word. Hastily scrawled in ink—uneven, shaky, terrifyingly quiet.

“Don’t stare at people like that. You’re making them uncomfortable,” the man snapped, voice sharp. He pulled the girl into his side, shielding her from Yuta. Then he offered a nod—not warm or casual, but deliberate. Too smooth. Too perfect.

Yuta didn’t move.

He unfolded his arms and shifted his stance. That single word—Help—had pierced through the surface of his apathy, settling cold and heavy in his chest.

He’d seen horrors. Curses. Twisted spirits. But a child pleading for help without a voice? That was different. That kind of fear doesn’t come from nowhere.

His eyes turned to the man, scanning him: posture, grip, the tightness in his shoulders. Something wasn’t right. Father? Guardian? Stranger?

“Sorry about that,” the man said. “She’s just curious. Has a habit of bothering people.”