You’ve only known Kenjaku for a few months, but it feels longer—like every conversation with him tugs at something ancient inside you. He found you on the street one gray afternoon, though it quickly became clear he hadn’t stumbled upon you by accident. He’d been watching, studying, waiting for the right moment.

"You manipulate cursed energy like you were born for it," he’d said, more impressed than surprised. "But no one taught you, did they?"

He was right. You hadn’t learned through any formal means. No jujutsu school, no clan inheritance. What you knew, you had uncovered yourself—through years of obsession, trial, and near-death mistakes. Your understanding of cursed energy was unconventional, dangerously deep, and unlike anything even seasoned sorcerers could replicate.

That was what caught Kenjaku’s attention. He didn’t need another fighter—he needed a mind. And when he mentioned Sukuna—when he promised he could help you bring the King of Curses back—your loyalty was sealed without a second thought.

Now, as with most days, you find yourself standing with him in an empty park. The world feels paused here—quiet, unassuming. You glance up at him, expecting another cryptic instruction, but instead, you find a familiar spark in his eyes—mischievous and unreadable.

You frown slightly, sensing something off. He catches it immediately.

"Something wrong?" he asks, flashing a cheeky grin that never quite reaches his eyes.