He stripped off his clothes and threw them straight into the washing machine, dumping in extra detergent to wash away any lingering smell from the dark alleyways.
He took a fast shower, scrubbing the street dirt off his skin, and changed into a pair of plain gray sweatpants and a clean white t-shirt.
He grabbed his phone from the bathroom counter and quickly ordered a large spread from their favorite local takeout place, timing the delivery to arrive right around the time Maki would get to his door.
With the evidence hidden and the food handled, Ren walked back into the living room. He grabbed the remote and dropped heavily onto the low green sofa.
He turned the television on and flipped the channel until he found a late-night variety show. A panel of comedians were currently yelling at each other over a spicy food challenge.
Ren leaned back against the soft cushions and stretched his legs out. He watched the bright screen, letting the loud, meaningless background noise fill the quiet apartment.
...
The doorbell chimed over the blaring television.
Ren checked the time on his phone. 10:15 PM. Too early for Maki's train, and the takeout wasn't due for another ten minutes. Maybe the kitchen was fast tonight.
He dug his wallet out of his sweatpants, walked to the front door, and pulled it open.
"Hey, just leave it—"
Ren stopped, his wallet pausing mid-air.
Standing in the hallway wasn't a tired delivery driver. It was Maki. She was wearing her dark Jujutsu High jacket left unzipped over a plain white t-shirt, her long tactical weapon case slung securely across her back. In her hands, she held two large, steaming plastic bags that smelled heavily of garlic, fried rice, and spicy pork.
"You tip terribly, by the way," Maki deadpanned, holding up the bags. "I ran into the guy in the lobby. Figured I'd save him the trip up the stairs."
"You made record time," Ren said, genuinely surprised. He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. "I thought you were catching the train."
"I did. And then I ran the rest of the way from the station," she muttered, stepping past him into the warm apartment.
Ren closed the door, the deadbolt clicking shut. He watched as Maki walked straight to the kitchen island. She set the takeout bags down on the marble counter, then let her heavy weapon case slide off her shoulder, letting it hit the hardwood floor with a solid, familiar thud.
She didn't take off her jacket. She didn't even look at the food.
Maki turned around, crossed her arms over her chest, and fixed him with a stare that could have melted concrete. The fierce, uncompromising sorcerer was back, though her amber eyes were tight with genuine, barely concealed worry.
"Alright," Maki said, her voice completely devoid of her usual teasing. "Show me. Tell me exactly what is going on, Ren."
Ren shoved his wallet back into his sweatpants, playing the part of the confused, slightly overwhelmed civilian to perfection. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a hesitant sigh.
"I wasn't kidding on the phone, Maki. It started yesterday morning, but I thought it was just... adrenaline. Or a really good night's sleep." He offered a small, sheepish smile to reference their night together, but Maki's expression didn't waver.
Ren walked over to the kitchen drawers. He pulled it open and pulled out a solid, thick-handled stainless steel soup spoon. He held it up for her to see.
"Watch."
Ren didn't brace his feet. He didn't wind up or tense his shoulders. He simply held the bowl of the spoon with his left hand, pinched the thick handle with his right thumb and index finger, and twisted.
The heavy steel immediately groaned, warping and buckling under his grip like it was made of warm taffy.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Ren twisted the metal handle into a tight, perfect corkscrew, then tossed the ruined utensil onto the marble counter.
It clattered loudly in the quiet kitchen.
Maki stared at the twisted metal. For a full three seconds, she completely forgot how to breathe.
Her brain instantly ran the calculations. Bending a spoon wasn't a parlor trick if the metal was that thick; twisting it into a tight coil using only two fingers with zero leverage required an absurd, terrifying amount of raw kinetic force.
Maki closed the distance between them in two long strides.
She didn't say a word. She reached out, her calloused hands grabbing Ren's right forearm.
Her fingers squeezed, pressing into his skin. Ren kept his arm completely relaxed, but the muscle density beneath her fingertips was undeniable.
It felt exactly like her own—tightly coiled, perfectly optimized, and entirely unnatural for an ordinary human.
She slid her hands up to his shoulders, then pressed her palms flat against his chest, her amber eyes wide and searching. She wasn't blushing this time; she was looking for a curse. She was looking for any trace of dark, malignant energy that might have mutated him.
But there was nothing. No cursed energy spike. No residual miasma. Just Ren, feeling perfectly warm and solid beneath her hands.
"It's just physical," Maki whispered, her voice laced with absolute disbelief. She looked up into his dark eyes. "You don't have a fever? Your bones don't ache? You don't feel like you're burning up?"
"No," Ren said softly, letting his hands come up to rest lightly on her waist. "Honestly, Maki, I feel amazing.
It's just... really hard not to accidentally break everything I touch. What is this? Is this normal for your... track club?"
Maki pulled her hands back, running them through her dark green hair in pure frustration. She began to pace the short length of the kitchen, her boots clicking against the floor.
"No, it is absolutely not normal," she muttered, her mind spinning as she tried to apply Jujutsu logic to an impossible situation.
"My condition—my strength—it's a biological binding vow. It's a Heavenly Restriction. You are born with it. You can't just catch it like a cold!"
She stopped pacing and looked at him, her face suddenly draining of color before a violent, brilliant shade of crimson rushed back in to paint her cheeks and ears.
Her eyes went impossibly wide as the timeline of events fully caught up to her.