.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
"…Tatsuya Fujiwara?"
Kaoru made a disgusted sound. "No, not the actor. Him. Okita Sōji."
Satoru's brow lifted. Oh. Okita Sōji, sword prodigy and poster boy for tragic death by tuberculosis. He knew the name; everyone in Japan with a functioning education did. But— "…You're saying Scarlet Mist is—no,was—Okita Sōji?"
Kaoru's lips curled into that smile again, the one that made Satoru's stomach do something dumb. "Exactly," she said, like she'd been dying to tell someone. "In life, he was a genius. A sword prodigy, yes, but an even better jujutsu sorcerer, gifted from birth. Possibly the strongest sorcerer of the Bakumatsu era," she said fondly. "But…"
"But?" Satoru prompted.
"But," she exhaled, rubbing the corner of one eye, "he served the Shinsengumi."
Satoru leaned on one arm, half-laughing. "The special police force?"
"Not just that. They were an elite jujutsu division under the direct command of the Tokugawa Shogunate. To prove their loyalty, the three great clans—Zenin, Gojo, Kamo—each sent handpicked sorcerers to serve. Okita Sōji came from a high-standing Kamo branch. He was their star and was chosen for his talent. Youngest ever appointed."
"Kamo, huh," Satoru let out a low whistle. "And now he's a Vengeful Spirit pissed off at the jujutsu world. So… what went wrong?"
"I don't know what happened," she admitted—and that was rare—frowning. "I wasn't in Japan when everything went down, and when I returned, the Shinsengumi were already branded as traitors, the Meiji restoration had happened, and Okita was already a Vengeful Spirit. His entire family line? Gone. Whatever happened between them and the clans? Erased."
He studied her expression. "...That bother you?"
"No," she lied as she stood. She stretched her arms over her head and rolled her shoulders with a grunt. "It doesn't matter. What matters is this—he's still out there, and I'm ready."
Satoru blinked, then brightened as if a switch had been flipped. "Wait. Ready ready?"
Her answer was to vanish into the corridor. Satoru nearly levitated off the floor, grinning ear to ear. Kami, bless her, she's moving again. No more NHK-induced stasis. He followed like a very tall and extremely curious duckling, tailing her to what had once been Megumi's room and now was unmistakably Kaoru's cursed basement. She opened the door, and immediately, the pressure of a dozen conflicting cursed signatures pressed on his Six Eyes like a migraine. Yeah. Still deeply unsettling. Just... moved here.
Kaoru crossed briskly to a shelf stacked with chaotic junk: scrolls, bones, brass trinkets, too many things that hummed with residual wrath. Some could be classified as Special Grade tools. Others were just… weird.
Hisanobu hovered by the door, visibly pale. "Ojousama," he said carefully. "You're not thinking of using that—"
She crouched, batting aside a scroll that growled at her. "Yes," she snapped, still rummaging. "I didn't binge Shinsengumi! three times for fun—ah!"
With a triumphant sound, she pulled something out from beneath a pile of cracked boxes: a Noh mask, pale as moonlight, Onna-style, delicate, feminine, hollow-eyed. The kind of face you see in dreams right before they turn into nightmares. It stared back.
"That's it?" Satoru frowned as he stepped closer; he didn't like how much it smiled. "You're like a cursed Doraemon."
Kaoru turned with that dangerous little grin, the one Satoru had officially classified as "ominous but kind of hot."
"This," she said, brushing dust off its cheek, "is the Mask of Murasaki Shikibu. She wore it during the final edits of The Tale of Genji. It offers fragmented glimpses of the past, of the future, disjointed and cryptic, but if your mind is really locked onto one thing…" Her voice tilted, dangerously light. "Then the vision might reflect it."
Satoru, naturally, helped himself. He snatched the mask from her hands with a grin. "Oh, he said, spinning the mask by its edge. "That's why you rotted your brain with NHK, so your vision would lock onto Okita Sōji."
Kaoru stole the mask back with possessiveness and the reflexes of someone who had definitely fought in wars. "Careful. It's older than your clan," she warned. Hisanobu muttered something reverent about how Ojousama always had a plan as Kaoru gave him a rare nod of approval. "Previously, I had to reread the same two scrolls about the Shinsengumi over and over again. At least now I can binge-watch their misery."
She motioned for them to follow her back upstairs into the kitchen, which had become her staging ground for ridiculous things. Moments later, she dropped into a kitchen chair with the mask in her lap, expression clouded; her fingers drummed nervously against her knee.
Satoru leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "What now?"
Kaoru's nose wrinkled slightly. "Ugh. I just forgot how unpleasant this feels," she admitted quietly.
"Want me to do it?" he offered, half-serious. "You've already force-fed the Shinsengumi timeline to my brain, maybe I'm synced up enough."
"No," Kaoru lifted the mask, hesitated, then—almost reluctantly—held it just before her face. "Just... don't touch me while it's on, it won't end well. And you—" she tapped Mame once "—don't throw a tantrum."
The cursed comb tucked behind her ear flared in response, in what Satoru could only interpret as a sulk.
Kaoru inhaled deeply, then she placed the mask on. It didn't need straps; it just stayed. Her breathing slowed, and her cursed energy shifted; then it flatlined, as if she'd fallen asleep upright.
Satoru blinked; the mask sucked everything inward, not a flicker left, not even from Mame. "Yup, that's not ominous at all."
He glanced at Hisanobu, who stood behind her with the tight, composed stance of someone who expected the worst. Satoru stepped forward, peering cautiously over Kaoru's shoulder. Hisanobu mirrored him from the other side. They stared; nothing. And then—
Mame pulsed violently in a warning flare, quick enough to sting Satoru's eyes; the Six Eyes caught the sudden shift in Kaoru's cursed energy, violent and unspooling in all directions, until—
Blood.
Thick, pouring from beneath the mask, gushing down her chin in alarming volume, soaking her shirt. Hisanobu lunged forward with a towel, catching it just in time, his hands avoiding direct contact with her. Irrationally, Satoru's brain went from humor to alarm in under a second.
"Nope," said Satoru, immediately reaching to shake her.
"Don't—" said Hisanobu.
Too late. His hand had closed instinctively over her shoulder; the cursed energy snapped back like a whip, coiling over Satoru's hand and up his arm.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the kitchen anymore; he was looking out through someone else's eyes.
A familiar woman with black hair pinned. A silk kimono, soft peach, dusted with cranes. He saw her through eyes that weren't his, and yet he was there. Her face felt like a memory forgotten mid-thought. She turned to him with a faint smile.
"What," she said softly with a voice that sounded like Kaoru's, "you want us to fall like camellias? Together?"
"Yes," he heard his own voice answer. Or was it someone else's? He wasn't sure. "Together."
When he blinked, Satoru flinched back, hand leaving her shoulder as if burned by the contact.
Hisanobu shot him a glare that might've killed a lesser man, muttering darkly as he kept blotting blood from Kaoru's chin. "That's why she told you not to touch her."
Satoru's eyes were still locked on her face, or rather, the mask. A memory of the past? No, not his. A vision of the future, then? What the hell was that? He filed the thought away just as Kaoru tore the mask from her face and dropped it on the table like it was hot iron. With a sharp inhale, her back arched as if she'd been drowning and just broken the surface. The mask clattered to the table as blood still trickled from her nose. Hisanobu was already holding out a second towel with the resignation of someone who had cleaned this up before.
Her whole body slumped as Mame pulsed violently in her hair, already snapping RCT into place, closing veins and vessels at inhuman speed. She pressed the cloth to her face, blinking hard, slowly grounding herself. She didn't look at him; she didn't seem to have noticed what he'd seen.
As Mame was circling her like a furious guardian spirit, Satoru didn't say anything, not about the vision, not even about the disturbing way her cursed energy had reacted to his touch. "Is she—?"
"She's fine," Hisanobu said curtly. "The mask always bleeds its wearers; without Ojousama's RCT, anyone else would be unconscious."
"Good to know," Satoru muttered, ruffling his hair. "Next time, lead with that." He leaned forward, Six Eyes scanning her cursed energy; it was stabilizing. She was pale, yes, but functional. It wasn't concern—he didn't do concern—but it was close enough to be annoying. "You okay?"
Kaoru grumbled something only half-conscious, still holding her head and pressing the towel to her face as blood streaked her lips. She blinked up at him. "Yeah. I forgot how much this part sucks."
Satoru, still half-staring, muttered, "You didn't feel that?"
But Kaoru looked more preoccupied with cleaning the blood from her chin than the emotional existential meltdown he was potentially about to spiral into. "Feel what?"
He didn't answer. So she hadn't noticed. The vision—her vision—must've diverged the moment he touched her, and his own had been something else entirely. He looked toward Hisanobu, who was glaring again, as if he'd punch him if Kaoru weren't bleeding. Satoru ignored him with well-practiced indifference. "She didn't notice," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Kaoru finally lowered the towel just enough to look at him, grinning, tired, and just a little dangerous, eyes dizzy but intact. "I got it," she said.
Satoru blinked. "You got it?"
She extended the towel to Hisanobu, and Mame throbbed smugly like it was taking credit for the whole operation. "I saw it," she said. "I know where Scarlet Mist might attack next."
They cleared the kitchen table as Hisanobu unfolded two maps, one of the country, one of Tokyo. And just like that, the room transformed: no longer a cursed den or temporary kitchen, but a war council.
Satoru leaned in, the first flash of real excitement cutting through the weirdness in his mind. "Describe the vision," he said, pen already spinning between his fingers.
Kaoru sat forward, dried blood flaking at the corner of her mouth. "There were sirens," she said, fingers trailing Tokyo's arteries. "Ambulances. An overlit hallway. Linoleum floors. Wide double doors. An emergency wing, I think."
"So, a hospital," Satoru echoed, scanning the map.
Kaoru nodded. "A big one. Probably Tokyo."
Satoru tapped a knuckle against his mouth. "Did you see the building's name?"
"No," she squinted, brows tightening. "But there were elevated walkways, a cross layout, and a distinct sculpture in the front garden, something abstract and awful. It looked expensive."
"Oh," Satoru smirked. "Tokyo Medical University Hospital. Awful statue, smells like bleach and rich people."
Kaoru smiled, brief but triumphant. "So that's the one."
"But when?" Satoru asked, narrowing his eyes. "You didn't get a timestamp?"
"There was snow," she said simply.
That gave him pause; then, his fingers tapped the map. "We're in mid-November," he murmured. "Snow won't hit Tokyo until at least December."
Kaoru nodded. "There wasn't any snow on the ground. Just those fat, slow flakes that melt the second they touch the ground."
"That narrows it. Tokyo won't see its first real snow for another three, maybe four weeks, if we're lucky. But—" Satoru drummed his fingers on the map again "—on the day of the first snow, it's cold enough to flurry, but not cold enough to hold. That gives us a very specific short window."
She leaned in beside him. "So?"
"So—" he grinned, tapping the location, "—Tokyo Medical University Hospital. Day of the first snow."
Hisanobu blinked between them, watching the volley of logic snap back and forth, more surprised than he'd admit. Their exchanges overlap seamlessly, as generals mid-campaign. "So… that's our target?"
Silence.
Then Satoru, a little quieter: "No. It's not our target. It's its."
Kaoru leaned back in her chair, hand resting at her chin. "If Scarlet Mist cast a Red Ward around that building…"
"The casualties would be in the hundreds, if not thousands," Satoru finished. "A potential massacre."
Kaoru's hand drifted to the map. "The Red Wards' effect on non-sorcerers is nearly instantaneous. Once the mist starts to spread, if we don't act fast—"
"I can track the kekkai's formation the second it appears," Satoru cut in, thinking fast. "Then identify Scarlet Mist's location, and eliminate it. Best-case scenario? I can neutralize it in three minutes. If he resists, longer. And that's assuming I can move freely inside the building. With that many civilians? Unlikely."
"Three minutes," Kaoru repeated flatly. "That's enough to kill hundreds."
Hisanobu's voice came in. "Then we evacuate preemptively. Say it's a drill—"
"No." Kaoru cut in. "If Scarlet Mist senses even a whisper of preparation, he'll abandon the attack entirely, and we'll lose our only confirmed window for who knows how long."
The silence that followed was unpleasant.
Satoru ran a hand through his hair. "So we can't evacuate, but we have to stop a massacre."
Kaoru bit down on her thumb; a nervous tic from the past. "Even with our combined effort," she said with a tight voice, "we can't secure that many civilians and kill a special-grade like Scarlet Mist at the same time. We're good, but not that good. This is a full-scale operation."
Satoru chuckled, too casual to be harmless. "Okay. Then I'll call the dream team."
Kaoru narrowed her eyes. "I don't like how you said dream team."
"I'll handle the Jujutsu Society," he waved a hand. "Let me worry about the politics. Trust me, the higher-ups are so terrified of Scarlet Mist, they'll let me pull together a battle royale in a morgue if I promise to solve it."
Her suspicion was immediate. "If it involves dragging Hisanobu or me into the Jujutsu Society—"
Satoru waved her off, hands already fishing his phone from his pocket. "Come on. I'm Satoru Gojo, and I'm in charge of the Scarlet Mist case. I'll create the perfect cover ID for you. Super stylish and very mysterious. You'll be some fancy kekkai specialist brought in at my personal request. And I already know exactly who to bring in the dream team."
Kaoru studied him. "People you trust?"
There it was. Satoru's smile twitched then steadied again. "Let's say more than most." He stood quickly. "Alright, give me a day. I'll summon the dream team for the Okita Sōji ExorcismEvent. Catchy name pending."
Kaoru didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue either. Satoru took that as a win, but then... He was nearly in the hallway when her voice caught him. "Something's not right."
He turned. "What now?"
She didn't answer immediately. Then, slowly: "It just doesn't fit." She frowned. "Scarlet Mist always targeted strategic points—sorcerers, archives, clan estates. But never civilians. And now… Tokyo Police HQ? A civilian hospital? This is a shift."
Satoru's smirk lingered, but something behind his skull cooled. "What are you thinking?"
Her fingers traced the edge of the map. "The Zenin elder killed last time felt incidental, not the objective. I think the real target was the civilians. He's not aiming for sorcerers, now, he's aiming for non-sorcerers. The more the better."
Satoru inhaled, barely. Non-sorcerers. His jaw didn't tighten, but his shoulders didn't move. He knew where this conversation was going, knew the name he couldn't—wouldn't—say out loud that was beginning to darken the edge of the whole cursed case of Scarlet Mist.
Kaoru kept going. "That hospital? There's no one from the Jujutsu Society there, it's just overworked staff and regular civilians."
Hisanobu folded his arms. "Didn't you suspect someone might be helping him, Ojousama? Could these changes be connected?"
The room narrowed. Satoru didn't move, didn't blink as his mind shut the thought down immediately, rejected the implication before it could form completely. No. Not him. He might've gone mad, might've fallen, might've been a criminal, but this? A civilian hospital? He knew him better than anyone. Didn't he? He would never—
No.
Whatever Scarlet Mist had become, Satoru would handle it, no matter who stood at the center of it. He would deal with it alone; there was no need to voice it.
Kaoru was saying something; so was Hisanobu. But their voices blurred, noise against a closed door.
"...massacring non-sorcerers? Why the shift?"
Satoru's mind snapped the door shut harder until her voice cut through again—"Got any theories?"—he looked up quickly.
"None," he said, too fast. The smile he offered curled too tightly. "Getting a little conspiracy-drunk, don't you think? It's a Vengeful Spirit, a very angry, very dead one. He's doing what Vengeful Spirits do. That's all."
Kaoru's gaze didn't waver; she studied him a second longer than was comfortable. Then, finally, she nodded. "Maybe you're right."
"Of course I am," he said, already turning toward the hallway again. "I'll go gather the team. Don't worry about it, ojousama. Try not to bleed on anything important."
Satoru was almost at the door when her voice caught him again and stopped him. "Are you alright?" she asked, quietly.
He paused and looked at her over his shoulder, just barely; she was still seated, still watching him as if she knew where the wound was. Satoru hated that, just a little. You're not the only one with a poker face, you know? Kaoru was interesting, strange, clever, the kind of woman completely unhinged and composed at once. She made him laugh, got him, somehow, in ways no one else did, but she wasn't his ally, she was just another piece on the board, a temporary collaboration for the sake of the country. Satoru liked her, sure. That didn't mean he trusted her.
Especially not when it came to Suguru. He didn't trust anyone when it came to Suguru. Not even himself.
He flashed a grin. "Of course. What could possibly be wrong?"
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
"Are you alright?" she had asked.
And he'd given her that grin. That unbearable, insufferable Gojo grin, all sunshine and mischief, like the weight of the world bounced right off his fancy Infinity.
"Of course," he'd said, all teeth. "What could possibly be wrong?"
Kaoru gritted her teeth now, remembering it. The memory returned unbidden, fully formed, with all the bile of déjà vu; it was barely past dawn and she already wanted to throw a chair at something. That grin. That voice. That lie.
That was three days ago, and Kaoru still hadn't forgiven him for it.
Kaoru hadn't experienced this exact flavor of irritation in about four centuries, the precise, slow-burning kind reserved for one particular bloodline. That unique Gojo signature: lying straight through a smile with the kind of charm that said I'm fine when it meant I'm bleeding to death inside, but screw you for noticing. She had recognized the lie in every line of his face.
With a groan, she scrubbed her hands down her face and sat up. "Damn it, Satoru Gojo."
There it was again; the name that kept slamming into her thoughts like a hammer. After days spent binge-watching Shinsengumi! until her brain melted out of her ears, she'd expected at least the reward of unconsciousness. But no, every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was that stupid grin and Satoru Gojo saying, "What could possibly be wrong?" with that smug little mouth and that wide-blue-eyed innocence that wasn't fooling a single soul.
Kaoru's brow twitched. The last man who had said that to her had cursed her with immortality and vanished into legend; she hated Gojo men who lied, hated them almost as much as she hated herself for still giving a damn.
Stretching until her spine popped, she muttered into the quiet room, "What am I even doing?"
She shouldn't be surprised. He didn't remember her, or anything, so of course he didn't trust her. Why should he? Curry dinners, bad TV, and synchronized map deductions didn't mean anything. To him, she was a temporary ally. Just The Archivist. And that was fine, really, it was; she could handle that. What grated was the way he was avoiding her. The three days of barely-there glances, half-muttered jokes, disappearing the moment she entered a room. Coward. What was he, five?
Kaoru just wished she could find a way to show him. She scowled as she padded barefoot to the door. "How the hell am I supposed to prove it to him?" she muttered. "That he can trust me. That I'd—" That if he asked—truly asked—she would follow him anywhere, through any Red Wards and whatever fresh disaster this century wanted to throw at them. All he had to do was ask. Hell, she'd help him burn it all down if that was what he wanted.
…Probably. She'd prefer not to.
She slid open the door to her room, mid-rant and halfway into composing a very pointed mental letter to the kami—
And stopped.
A plastic shopping bag sat neatly on the floor just outside.
Kaoru blinked. "…What the hell?"
She stared at it as if it might explode, then picked it up, suspicious and curious in equal measure. She brought it to the bed and unwrapped it carefully. Inside: a neatly folded Jujutsu High uniform, an ID, and—of course—a note.
Off to run errands! The Dream Team arrives today.
Remember your new ID, Cadet Kaoru of the Fukuoka Branch, so no one questions why you're weird.
Also: don't forget to SMILE! ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و̑✧
—S.G.
(P.S. I drew you. You're welcome.)
Under the note, a chibi sketch of her in full rage-mode, yelling flames and all, while Mame was a floating bean with shark teeth.
Kaoru couldn't help it. She laughed, short, loud, and a little bitter. "Idiot."
She picked up the ID, turning it over in her hand. Kaoru. No surname, no clan; Satoru hadn't been joking when he said he could do whatever he wanted. Grade 2. Kaoru squinted at the card, affronted. Yes, it was a cover identity, but still, Grade 2? After all she'd done? After surviving Meiji, Taisho, the Pacific War, postwar Tokyo, fax machines? The uniform was modern, new-issue Jujutsu gear, but tailored like an old-school Sukeban uniform: a long black skirt that swayed to mid-calf, and a cropped, high-collared jacket with silver buttons lined diagonally down one side. Kaoru studied it, fingers lingering on the stitching.
"Fukuoka branch buttons. Original design. Real metal," she murmured. "Nice."
She was definitely stealing those for her collection, later.
Still chuckling, she changed into the uniform, tying her hair up into a messy ponytail and tucking Mame behind one ear. The comb buzzed faintly, a quiet, sleepy hmph of acknowledgment. "Yeah, yeah," she said, patting it gently. "Morning to you, too."
Downstairs smelled like ginger and miso. Something was sizzling. Her stomach growled.
In the kitchen, Tsumiki and Hisanobu moved in perfect, almost eerie harmony. Hisanobu, hair tied back in a formal tail, still in his usual three-piece suit, wielded a kitchen knife with the same deadly grace he used when swinging his nodachi, Moon Pride. Tsumiki, sleeves rolled up, rinsed vegetables and passed them along without missing a beat.
"—and the flyer said daikon's half-off on Thursdays," Tsumiki was saying, "so we need to go early."
"If we miss it, we'll have to substitute again," Hisanobu replied, not even glancing up from the chopping board.
Kaoru leaned against the doorway. "Well, well. Look at you two. Has the domestic cult begun already?"
They both turned at once.
"Kaoru-san!" Tsumiki beamed. "We saved some breakfast in the fridge—oh." She blinked. Then squinted. Her gaze swept Kaoru from head to toe.
Hisanobu also paused mid-chop.
Kaoru struck a pose, hands on hips, like a smug Sukeban on a movie poster. "So? How do I look?"
Hisanobu didn't even blink. "Dangerous," he said, deadpan.
Tsumiki gave her a very earnest smile. "It fits you. You look like one of those cool girl gang leaders from the '90s."
Kaoru grinned, pleased. "Perfect. Exactly the vibe I wanted."
She was about to tease them further when her eyes drifted toward the sliding glass door that looked out onto the courtyard and stilled.
Megumi. Standing in the morning cold, breath fogging the air, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big and a scarf tucked up to his nose. His hair was a mess, spiking in every direction.
The boy with a face far too familiar, who scowled every time she entered a room, and who hadn't forgiven her for turning his bedroom into a cursed artifact vault.
Understandable.
Kaoru watched as he brought his hands up and—snap—summoned the Divine Dogs. White and black flickered to life beside him, growling with cursed energy and shadows.
Kaoru's smile faded into something quieter.
Megumi was sweating, even in the chill. He looked pale and strained.
He dismissed the shikigami, exhaled sharply, and then immediately summoned them again.
And again.
Kaoru crossed her arms, thoughtful. Pacing. Rhythm. He's trying to shorten the delay.
"Trying to speed up the summoning…" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "Smart. But wrong."
She stepped into her sneakers, slid open the door, and stepped outside without flinching at the cold. The bite of late autumn hit her skin, but she barely noticed. Megumi didn't notice her; he was too wrapped up in what he was doing, frustrated, focused, trying again. His latest summoning attempt flickered out mid-formation.
Kaoru smiled to herself. "Alright, little twin," she whispered. "Let's see if you really are the 'blessing' my father dreamed of four hundred years ago."
Kaoru stepped down into the yard just as Megumi finished another sloppy invocation. Each time, his breath got a little shorter. His hands didn't tremble—credit where credit was due—but the impatience behind his eyes was obvious. He looked like a kettle about to hiss.
Classic Zenin: all pressure, no pause.
He didn't so much as glance her way when she approached. Better. He kept his glare fixed on the dirt, as if it had personally insulted him, as the shadow at his feet still rippled from the last summon.
"Still too slow," Kaoru called out, loud enough to provoke him.
He turned, already mid-glare. "I don't need help," he muttered, brushing sweat from his temple with the back of his sleeve.
Kaoru arched a brow. "Oh, you're absolutely getting help," she replied, tone light. "Satoru said I could contribute to your education, that means you're out of luck, kid."
Megumi's expression shifted just slightly—panic hidden behind practiced blankness. The Zenin family's greatest gift: the resting disappointment face. Preadolescents and their disdain for adult supervision; it was adorable, in a self-destructive way, and it reminded her—painfully—of someone else. The thunderbrat. He'd stomped his foot and said he didn't need a babysitter anytime she tried to teach him something. She'd responded by dragging him through a three-hour endurance training and letting him pass out with a broken nose and a stupid grin.
Kaoru cracked her knuckles and stepped closer. "Well then," she murmured, forming a seal with her hands.
Her shadow split open at her feet, and something huge rose from the dark: a Divine Dog, white as bone, veins of obsidian threading through its fur. The beast was massive—larger than Megumi, paws like boulders, cursed energy thick enough to warp the air around them. The courtyard cracked under its weight.
"Ojousama..." came Hisanobu's alarmed voice from the kitchen.
Kaoru ignored him.
Megumi took a half-step back instinctively, breath hitched. He tried to cover it with a frown. "That's—" he started.
"A Totality," Kaoru said, casually scratching behind the beast's ear. "The other was destroyed." She didn't explain, just lingered a moment, fingers buried in dense fur. Then she snapped her fingers, and the shikigami melted back into her shadow. "Watch."
Megumi barely had time to register it before she invoked it again, barely a breath between disappearance and reappearance. As smooth as a blink. The Divine Dog leaned against her leg, massive head dropping to nudge at her hip. Kaoru scratched behind its ears absently, then gestured at Megumi.
"See?" she asked.
Megumi squinted. "There was no delay." His eyes narrowed. "How?"
Kaoru grinned. "You're wasting your cursed energy."
He didn't deny it.
She dropped her voice to a patient hum. "You're keeping your output too high through the entire summoning process. That's the rookie mistake," she added, pacing a slow, mocking circle around him. "You don't need to pump cursed energy from start to finish. That just drains you and slows everything down. There's a window—a very short one—where it matters."
He tilted his head, still scowling, but she saw it, the curiosity bleeding through. "…When my mind pictures the shikigami, and my shadow… responds to it?"
Kaoru's grin widened, proud. "Correct."
He blinked. She could almost see the little internal celebration before he buried it beneath his patented Zenin Resting Disappointment Face. "So," he said, piecing it together, "the cursed energy should spike exactly when the image is clear. And fade right after?"
"There we go." She dismissed the Divine Dog again and stepped up behind him. "Now," she said, jabbing a finger between his shoulder blades that tensed under the coat, "straighten your back."
"I am straight."
"Straighter," she said, unimpressed. "Try again."
He glared at her over his shoulder.
She didn't blink. "We don't have all day."
He muttered something that sounded vaguely like an insult and formed the hand sign again.
Kaoru's eyes dropped to his feet. His shadow was twitching, just about to ripple. "Now," she said, pressing her finger harder.
Megumi flinched at her timing. The shikigami appeared, slower than hers. He groaned.
"Too late," she said flatly. "Again."
Megumi clicked his tongue and withdrew them. Started again. Again, the finger. "Now." Again, the invocation.
"Too early," she said.
"Are you serious—"
"Again."
Scowl deepening. Hands again. She jabbed again. "Now." The shikigami burst out faster, but still not fast enough.
Kaoru's verdict came sharply. "Still too late."
Another press. This time, hard enough to jolt him forward. "Ohi, damn hag—!"
Kaoru didn't even blink. Then, with the casual finality of a judge pronouncing a death sentence, she said, "Excuse me?" Deadly glare: activated. Another jab. "You wanna repeat that?"
He ducked back, squawking like an indignant crow. "You keep doing this—" He jabbed her back, not in the shoulder, but somewhere vague near her elbow, mimicking her movement like a very aggrieved monkey. "—and it's annoying, and I can't concentrate!"
She squinted at him, unimpressed. "In war, there are distractions. If a finger poke throws off your summoning, your summoning's garbage." She leaned in, face perfectly blank. "Adapt to this world or die."
Poke.
Megumi was vibrating with teenage rage. Kaoru was glowing with unholy satisfaction. Before she could jab again—
Ding-dong.
The front doorbell rang. Both froze mid-motion, caught in a ridiculous tableau of generational trauma and aggressive mentorship. From the kitchen, Tsumiki's voice floated out, bright and oblivious:
"Kaoru-san? Can you get the door?"
Kaoru straightened with the leisurely grace of a victorious general. As she passed Megumi, she reached out and tousled his spiky black hair.
"Keep practicing," she ordered. "Practice makes perfect."
He slapped her hand away with a growl, face red.
Kaoru, still smug, padded toward the entrance, then paused. There were voices outside.
"Shoko-senpai, you think it's true?" chirped one—sunny, high-energy.
"Oh my god, shut up, Haibara," came a second voice, flat, female, laced with exasperation. "You're going to give Kusakabe another ulcer."
"I already have one," grumbled a third, older, dry, and deeply caffeinated. "Why am I even here?"
Then, a fourth warmer, more maternal: "Because Gojo-san called us his dream team, remember, brother? Said we were irreplaceable."
A pause. Then a strained groan: "Shut up, Uzuya."
Kaoru blinked. Ah. So this is the dream team.
She slid the door open... And was met by chaos incarnate.
Four pairs of eyes snapped toward her. For one long beat, no one said a word. The silence stretched, thick with first impressions and mutual judgment, like a held breath before a punchline.
Kaoru, barefoot in her crisp Fukuoka Branch uniform, one brow arched, stared them up.
First: a woman in her mid-thirties with pixie-short brown hair under a beret, long brown coat, a katana slung over one shoulder. Clearly reliable and possibly dangerous.
Second: a man, unmistakably related to the first woman, little older but same coat, same eyes, same katana at his hip. Exhausted already, wore the expression of someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
Third: a young woman in her twenties, brown hair in a messy bun, eyes shadowed by exhaustion, wearing a coat too heavy for November, possibly hiding snacks, and an aura of spiritual decay even Kaoru found impressive. She looked Kaoru up and down, then deadpanned: "So it's true. Gojo lives with a woman."
Kaoru blinked slowly. She didn't dignify that with a reply.
And then—
Fourth.
Her eyes narrowed, just slightly.
A young man in a classic jujutsu sorcerer's uniform. Hair like a perfectly round mushroom cap, smile too bright for this dimension. He was practically buzzing with cursed energy, like he might accidentally levitate if he got too excited. In his hands: a lovingly wrapped box of mochi.
He stared at her like he'd seen a ghost.
Then gasped—loud, scandalized, thrilled. "Wait!" he blurted, pointing at her like she was a celebrity. The grin exploded across his face. "It's you! Gandalf!"
Kaoru's soul briefly left her body. Oh no. Behind her ear, Mame pulsed with faint horror. What with this one? Why does he know me?
She instinctively took a step back. But it was too late; the boy was already halfway through the doorway, bouncing on the balls of his feet, mochi still clutched in both hands like a sacred offering.
"You saved my life! Seven years ago!"
Kaoru closed her eyes, praying to the kami. She was going to kill Satoru Gojo.