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Chapter Text

"Bring Gojō Satoru!"

"Where is Gojō Satoru?!"

"Gojō Satoru—"

Utahime is running.

Despite her stridor, she can still hear the panicked voices rising loud in her head. She shakes her head, trying to quash the memory, but dull panic continues to knot her chest. Her boots clack as she bounds past the turnstile and down the unmoving escalator. Overhead, the fluorescent strips of the deserted train station's ceiling flicker on and off, daubing shadows on the mealy cement. Ticket gates stand in rows like robotic tombstones in her wake, the card readers dark and silent. 

The place is empty; a ghost town. It's nothing like what she saw on the television over an hour ago. She'd been in the living room, a half-eaten bowl of ramen sitting on the tea table before her. Her spoon had hovered midway to her lips, her eyes wide as she homed in on the television screen before her.

It was Halloween. That much was evident in the news report. The live footage featured crowds of people sporting all kinds of different costumes. Utahime spied a man in chalky clown makeup; a woman in a sexy witch ensemble including a cone-shaped hat; another man inside an oversized pumpkin outfit.

And all of them were screaming.

"Bring Gojō Satoru, I tell you!"

"We need him! Where is he—"

Utahime's spoon landed back in her bowl with a clatter. She'd lifted her head, her eyes panning the living room. In her opinion, it was so sparsely furnished that it was barely habitable. And yet the few furnishings cost more than her entire apartment back home in Kyoto—the black leather Barcelona chair the most heinously expensive of them all. The luxury recliner sofa behind her, the globe-light Szxykeji in the ceiling, even the Persian rug—they were all further evidence of the homeowner's obscene wealth.

And said homeowner was standing right there before her, leaning against the arm of the Barcelona chair with his hands in his black jacket pockets. His blindfold was absent, his snow-white hair let down; his brilliant blue eyes rested on the chaos unravelling across the television screen.

Again and again, screams of his name rebounded through the speakers.

"Gojō," Utahime began, but he was already straightening up from the couch. She knew as well as he did that it was time for him to go.

That wasn't what she'd planned at all when she'd come down to Tokyo. He'd freed up his schedule for at least three days—a pitiful number, but the best he could do given his workload—and she'd just finished her last mission with a Grade 2 Spirit. They'd both hoped they could free up some time to themselves, even if it was just for a while, but she knew then that had all been wishful thinking.

"I'll come with you," she said, pushing her bowl aside and fumbling to her feet.

"Ah. No."

"What?"

"Utahime, you have a job you need to do." Somewhere along the way, he'd pulled on his blindfold. Not for the first time, it bothered her that she could no longer see his eyes.

"And what job is that?" she groused.

"Wait."

"Huh? What the fuck do you mean, wait?"

He held up his finger. "Chances are, there's a trap of some sort set specifically for 'Gojō Satoru'—"

She burst out, "Which is why I need to come!"

"—and I won't have time to look out for you."

Utahime sucked in her breath, bristling. He'd uttered the words bluntly, without a hint of apology. Maybe another time, she'd have taken offence—she still did, to some degree—but she was well aware then that there was no malice behind his statement. He was only stating the truth.

Gojō worked best alone. Everyone in Jujutsu Society knew that. Her accompanying him wouldn't be assistance; it'd saddle him with a liability. She hated this fact, indisputable as it was. It boiled hot in her belly like a poison she had no antidote for.

She braced herself for him to go, but he stayed there, watching her for a pregnant beat. She couldn't read his expression behind that blindfold, but she didn't need to. And when he stepped towards her, she raised her hand in warning.

"Don't," Utahime snapped. The last thing she could stand then was him holding her—not like this, when she was so painfully impotent. "Not now. Not until you come back. And when you do, I'll kick your ass for what you just said."

His wide, thin mouth curved into a familiar grin under his blindfold.

"I'll be counting on you then… Utahime."

These last words are scorched into her psyche. Over and over again, she latches onto them now like a mantra as she scurries to the next escalator and descends further to the underground platform of Shibuya Station. Her boots are making a racket on the steel steps, and she knows she ought to be more alarmed. Here, there could be Curses out of her grade—anything above Grade 2 is beyond her ability to handle—and she is giving herself away with the racket.

Speaking of noise…

Faint as it is, she clocks crackling in the distance. Swiftly, she pivots on her heel, her red hakama swishing, both hands bunched into fists. The lights here are darker and greenish as they continue to flicker; ghoulish shadows dance and eddy across the walls. Her own stretches before her, elongated and swollen like a growing black hole, trailing her like one of her demons from the worst figments of her imagination.

There are signboards everywhere, directing her to various places including the exit, with some emblazoned in luminous sanguineous letters—none of them, however, tell her where the person she is seeking is. A silhouette sits on a bench—but no, as she moves, so does it, and she realises she's been fooled by her shadow.

Utahime can still hear the crackling. She scans the long, murky tunnel, feeling a smidge lightheaded as she inhales. The air is potent with sweat—perhaps her own, perhaps not—iron, and cursed energy. It takes her a moment to pinpoint where the crackling is coming from: there, to her right, where a monster may be lying in wait…

It's not a monster. At least, it doesn't look like it, though she knows Curse Spirits can take on many forms. But as she draws closer to the small dusky blob on the base of the wall, she finds her stomach contracting with shock.

It's made of wood. The face carved into the material is all too familiar; it's the same face that has haunted her for days now, ever since she identified the mole among her students. Even now, it's a stab to the heart to look at the round emerald eyes and gaping mechanical mouth on the puppet.

"Mechamaru," Utahime whispers. The name surges both barbed and tender in her throat.

The crackling continues for a handful of seconds more, and then comes a familiar voice, albeit faded amidst the static crackles. "—tahime-sensei—?"

"Yes. Yes." She hunkers over and pries the device from the wall. It's glacial to the touch, like ice. She can feel the freeze all the way down to her bones.

"—listen closely. It's done. It—"

"What's done? Mechamaru, are you there? Where are you right now?"

More crackling.

"Listen. Gojō Satoru—"

Her heartbeat quickens, and all of a sudden the world has begun to spin.

"—has been sealed by Getō."

Utahime stares blankly down at the puppet's face. The wooden features swim until the round green eyes look as ghoulish as the lighting inside the station. The chill has settled deep in her marrow, congealing her inside out. She is ice and so very brittle, about to splinter into a million little pieces with an all-consuming horror and disbelief.

She opens her mouth, but the green in the puppet's eyes has faded into a dull, colourless hue. Whatever palpable cursed energy she could sense in it is gone.

All that remains is a shell.

What she heard cannot be true. None of it makes any sense. Getō is dead. And Gojō—he would never—

Yet he is not invincible. She has always known that. But she's never really let herself dwell long on that, maybe because it scares her, or maybe because it was easy to dismiss.

It is not so easy to dismiss it now.

"No," Utahime chokes out, her eyes watering. She can't fathom that it's true. She can't. The ramifications of Gojō's downfall are stupendous, to say the least. For Jujutsu Society, and for the higher-ups, it is a staggering loss. An inestimable one. Gojō's presence alone—his might—has cowed hundreds of curse users and Spirits into hiding. Following his departure, the balance between Curses and humans will go dangerously askew.

She supposes she ought to worry more about that. A part of her does. But all she can really think of is that wide mouth slanted in that infuriating smile; the brightness of his kaleidoscopic blue eyes; the spiky white hair she's recently twined her hands around and pulled. How she'd wanted him gone for the longest time, and now old desires bleed like new wounds.

Ironic as it is, she would not have believed Mechamaru's message had it not been for the last bit.

Getō.

Yes, Getō is dead. Or he should be. But the only way to seal Gojō's defeat would be by targeting his Achilles' heel: his late best friend. Utahime is well aware of the chink in his otherwise impenetrable armour.

And now it seems she is not the only one.

Whoever this perpetrator is, he has either taken on Getō's appearance, or he is Getō. She finds the latter hard to believe, and decides, for now, to assume the former.

But what does positing that achieve? She doesn't know. Panic mushrooms in her gut; she can taste the prickly astringence of it on her tongue, too. Getō was a Special Grade sorcerer, and whoever is impersonating him must be on that level as well. How is she supposed to take on a force like that, if they can even subjugate and trick Gojō Satoru?

I'll be counting on you then… Utahime.

Her pulse stutters, and the ache in her breastbone sharpens into a blade. Slowly, she straightens up despite the tremor in her legs, the dead puppet still hanging from her grip. Mechamaru hadn't said that Gojō was dead. He'd said he was sealed—which means there is a way to undo it.

The question is how.

Her head turns. She could have sworn she'd heard something further down the tunnel. Before she can stop herself, she's darting towards the sound, keeping her footfalls as noiseless as she can. More eldritch shadows dog her steps, long and pulsating, cut through only by the big glowing lavatory signs on her right.

She is sweating as she crosses a bend. It takes her a moment to realise it isn't just from exertion. What feels like tapered nails scrape slowly and painfully down her spine, sinking in and threatening to penetrate her soft flesh under her miko robes. Her breaths are escaping her in fits and starts, and more cold sweat beads between her breasts.

She is shaking so violently she wonders if she is about to crumple.

And then her eyes take in the sight before her, and something horrible and twisted clicks into place in Utahime's brain.

There are two teenage girls—one blonde, the other brunette. They are both decked in sailor-style uniforms, and they are on their knees on the floor, their heads bent. They are not the only ones prostrating themselves; beside them is a kneeling Curse Spirit. It is pale grey with a single eye, and the top of its head reminds Utahime of a steaming volcano's crest. A yellow spotted cape lies over its shoulders.

In any other scenario, Utahime would be much warier of it—she can feel from the thick cursed energy it emanates that it is at least Grade 1. Maybe even higher. In other words, it's beyond her power level. But all of her attention is besieged by the pink-haired figure standing before the kneeling individuals.

It is Itadori Yuuji.

And at the same time, it is not.

She has never seen Yuuji look like this. His hands are in his hoodie jacket pockets, his posture lazy and indolent, as if he is midway through a stroll in this underground train station. And as his head shifts ever-so-slightly towards her, his eyes dark, cool flecks of volcanic glass, she spies the black tattoos striping his jawline and crowning his forehead.

The invisible nails seem to slink through her skin until they reach bone.

She sees the horizontal slash gouging the wall behind the one-eyed Cursed Spirit and the girls, and that, ultimately, is what saves her life in that moment. Utahime drops to a kneel, her head plunging until it almost hits the cement, just as she feels a whoosh dice across the top of her red ribbon. It comes undone, unravelling from her locks in scarlet lines, and she knows it could have just as easily been her head had she knelt a split second later.

Her heart is bludgeoning her ribs, and she is a hair's breadth away from retching. Her clammy hands are spread onto the hard floor, drenching it with her sweat. Mechamaru's puppet has rolled off somewhere, lost in the snakes of red that crawl before her. Never in all thirty years of her life has she ever experienced this terror, like a noose that's coiled around her insides, squeezing them until she's about to erupt.

"Ah…" drawls the sleek, deep voice, redolent of crushed velvet over a rapier. "So you're not a complete fool, after all."

This isn't even Sukuna at full power—she's certain he's not a match for Gojō at this point. But for the first time, she's deriding herself for ever resenting Gojō's might and his power-tripping ways. She has, contrary to what Sukuna says, been such a fool.

This is what a power trip truly means.

"Brats." Utahime doesn't dare to look up, but Sukuna's hair-raising drawl sounds a bit more distant, and she suspects he's addressing someone else. "I'll start with you. You wished to speak to me, no?" A pause—and the noose around Utahime's insides clamps down harder with the deafening second that elapses. "I'll grant you a finger's worth of audience. Now, speak."

Ragged, harsh breaths engulf Utahime's ears. They aren't just her own. She can hear it from the other side of the hall, too.

And when a voice emerges—a young, fragile girl's voice—she feels a tiny piece of her heart break.

It sounds so much like Miwa.

"On the floor below us…" The girl draws another shuddering breath. "There is a man in monk's robes with a suture across his forehead."

Monk's robes? Utahime thinks of the year before, when Getō Suguru had pledged war on all the sorcerers. Principal Gakuganji had shared pictures of him: he'd sported robes just like a monk's, with a saffron-coloured kāṣāya garment slung around his torso.

Mechamaru had not lied.

"P–Please kill him," the girl begs, and Utahime's lungs convulse. "We know the location of one other finger. If you'll kill that man for us, w–we'll tell you where it is. So please…"

Utahime can't believe it. The request has come completely out of left field, at least to her. And yet, in a warped, deformed way, it also makes sense.

Getō is a Special Grade sorcerer. Killing him will not be easy. The only ones who can are Gojō—now sealed—Tsukumo Yuki, and Okkotsu Yuuta. Basically, only the other Special Grade sorcerers can tackle him, but therein lies the problem. Okkotsu is somewhere in Africa, and by the time Utahime manages to find him, it may be too late. Getō, or whoever this impersonator is, will have long escaped. Finding Yuki will be even harder. Utahime has no idea where the rogue sorcerer has gone off to.

That leaves Sukuna.

Utahime bites down on her lip so roughly she nearly bleeds. She feels ill. Bartering with the Devil cannot end well.

And yet they are in hell either way.

"Raise your head," Sukuna says.

Instinctively, Utahime knows he's not talking to her, and she continues to keep hers down. She can't see anything, just the damp cement at her fingertips, and the lines of scarlet spilling at where her severed ribbon has fallen.

It's the same ribbon Gojō has gifted her what feels like a lifetime ago.

Utahime's lips part as hot bile wells up within her, and it takes her a heartbeat to realise that the terrible scream that rings out is not from her own throat.

Something blistering sprays her cheek, and she shrinks back with a gasp. Droplets of a deeper, darker scarlet join her dissevered ribbon on the floor, and the rancid stench of iron invades her airways. This time, she cannot stop herself; she chokes a little and raises her head, just by a mere inch.

One of the girls is without theirs. Utahime stares dumbly, too paralysed by the freakshow to react, at the gushing blood from the empty stump of their neck.

"Mimiko!" the other girl screams again, and it is the most visceral, shredded sound Utahime has ever heard. "MIMIKO!"

Utahime is going to be sick.

It's not like she's never witnessed gore. As a seasoned sorcerer—and at thirty-one, an advanced age for a job with such a high mortality rate—she's seen enough. But to watch someone so young, so full of childish hope and naïveté, meet her demise like this is another story.

And never before has she seen a monster kill with such ease and cruelty.

"Did you think," Sukuna muses, eyes gleaming like jagged shards of volcanic glass, "a measly one or two fingers would grant you the right to order me around?"

"Sukuna, die!" shrieks the remaining girl, and she swings up a phone in her hands. Utahime's mouth opens on a warning, a cry of utter futility, but it is, of course, too late.

More gouts of crimson paint the wall behind what remains of both girls. There is so much red Utahime can scarcely make out the dark grey the wall had once been.

She is shaking all over. Her muscles are weak, reduced to mush, her lids smarting with tears. She is not sure her knees can continue to support her—she is milliseconds away from collapsing. It feels alien and like cowardice, and she hates herself for it. She has rarely feared any Curse before, no matter the grade.

But this monster here is different.

And yet, ironically, this is why he is the answer to her problems.

"Woman." Utahime can hear soft, casual footsteps slinking towards her. Her mouth fills with saliva and needles of fear, and her pulse bellows in her ears. Mimiko's blood has dripped from her cheek and onto her lip. If she opens her mouth, she will taste it.

The footsteps stop, but she can see the pair of red shoes right before her. Yuuji's shoes.

Only Yuuji is not here.

"Your turn now," drawls the silky voice. "Speak."

Utahime's breath putters. A morass of emotions pinballs through her; mindless terror, helplessness, desperation, anger, hope…

Killing the man who sealed Gojō may free him. It may not. But she knows that as long as the perpetrator lives, Gojō will remain sealed. Trapped. If she can't overpower the perpetrator, or at least subdue him enough to make him free Gojō, she will need help. And without Yuki or Yuuta around, her hands are tied.

But making a request to Sukuna will not go well, even if she offers something he may want in exchange. The girls are evidence of that. She hates that they had to die for her to learn that, and she hates herself more for capitalising on it anyway.

"I wish…" Her voice is uncharacteristically small. Tiny. Unrecognisable. One wrong move—one wrong word—and everything will be over. "... to serve you."

Silence.

The seconds multiply and grow and swell, like a balloon about to go off. Only the explosion may be the last thing she'll ever hear, or feel. For now, all she can hear is her rabid heartbeat delineating every wordless moment that ticks by. Your last few beats, a little voice whispers in her head.

Sukuna laughs, and Utahime's blood turns to ice. She had never heard such a cold sound before. Such a commonplace sound, laughter—yet this is pure evil. If cruelty is wine, this is at its oldest, and finest.

"How boring," Sukuna says.

And then her stomach detonates.

At least, that's how it feels. She flies backwards as white-hot agony volleys through her gut, and her body skids like a ragdoll until she crashes to the wall behind her. She gasps in vain for air that won't come, her hands gripping the front of her battered belly. The world is fading in and out, but through a blur of ghoulish green smog, she spots Sukuna's silhouette before her, one foot outstretched.

He'd kicked her. That was all he'd done, and he most likely hadn't put much force in it either, but she feels as if he'd blown her apart.

The only other person Utahime has ever encountered with such monstrous physical strength is Gojō. If she didn't have enough reason to fear Sukuna before, she certainly does now. There is no greater irony to this dichotomy—how she fears one beast, and loves the other.

She loves the other enough to know what she must do.

Her body is on fire. What feels like a lead pipe is lodged in her sternum, impeding her ability to breathe. Even so, even despite the pain, she slowly, oh-so-slowly, heaves herself up from where she is lying on the floor. A steady stream of blood oozes down her tongue, and she gargles on it as she slumps back to a kneel, her calves wobbling dangerously. Her abdomen feels broken; split apart, and she dimly wonders if she is about to vomit.

She cannot. She must not.

"I wish…" Utahime's weak vocal chords strain against the blood caking her throat. Her words are thick and slurred, but audible. "... to serve you."

She is glad Gojō is not here. She does not want him to see her like this. With him, she is fearless, abrasive and proud. She would sooner spit in his face than surrender. In fact, she has spat in it for much less.

And now she will give up everything for much, much more.

Sukuna laughs again.

It happens so fast she doesn't register it. Not at first. One moment she is kneeling there, trying to fight off waves of agony, and the next she has fallen on her side. The floor is no longer striped with crimson from her ribbon.

It's soaked in it.

She doesn't understand it. Time seems to slow to a crawl, leaving everything as she knows it in suspended animation. The vast pool of crimson is growing, but that's not the only thing the sluggish gears in her brain are trying to process.

It's the amputated arm lying metres away from her. Blood is still spurting from the gaping hole where a shoulder is supposed to meet it. Vaguely, with a clinical detachment, Utahime identifies the pallid glint of bone in the crimson cavity, shining bright in the bloodbath. There's even what looks like gobbets of soft, pinkish muscle clinging to it.

Then the pain hits.

The train station echoes with her shrill, high screams. A terrible inferno is burning her alive. She doubles over and begins to sob, her remaining—her only—hand seeking purchase on the slippery, bloody floor. She has never known pain like this. The last time she'd been so badly maimed by a Cursed Spirit, she'd passed out almost at once.

And while she wants more than anything to succumb to oblivion, a part of her knows deep down that she cannot.

I'll be counting on you… Utahime.

With Gojō, she is fearless.

For him, she can be, too.

Utahime gags on blood, but with a Herculean effort, she pushes down her scream; she stifles the incoming wave of reflexive weeping and keening. She tries to roll herself upright, and the paroxysm of agony that ensues is so acute she nearly blacks out. Somehow, she perseveres to a kneel anyway, though fat spots dance across her swimming vision and the floor bobs precariously beneath her. With a light thud, her head lands on the soaked cement, the reek of iron smothering her windpipe. She attempts to move, to wipe the sticky metallic liquid off her face, but her remaining arm lies uselessly by her side.

"I wish—" Utahime gargles wetly, a bubble of blood distending on her lips. It pops. "—to s-serve… you."

Sukuna's cruel laughter swamps her ears. She's too delirious, too out of it, to sense his movements, and she barely registers his black-nailed finger on her forehead.

"Not too bad," he says. "You intrigue me, woman."

She doesn't know if he's saying anything more. The train station is dimming, as if the lights are going off one by one. But she's faintly aware that there's nothing wrong with the lights—what's gone wrong is her. A ghastly burning sensation flares in her forehead where he's touching her, and she opens her mouth to cry out, but her throat is numb.

The last light flickers, illuminating Sukuna's savage smirk for the final time. And then it dies, and she, at long last, slips away into sweet oblivion.

"Where'd you get this?"

It takes her half a minute before she catches the question. Impatiently, she tears her eyes off the baseball match on the TV to look at what he is referring to.

His large hand is on her thigh, the bare skin exposed under her denim shorts. A lone pink line puckers her flesh, almost extending to her knee, though she doubts it will be there long. Shōko has done a superb job healing her, and she'd assured Utahime that there wouldn't be a scar.

"From my last mission." She thinks of the Grade 2 Cursed Spirit that she'd eventually exorcised—a man-sized eagle. Its talons had ripped right into her left leg, tearing through her hakama. "Hello, you saw the details on the report I was writing just now."

"Hm? I did?"

"Pay attention, you idiot!" she snaps.

Gojō leans back against his ridiculously overpriced sofa. His long black-clad legs are stretched out casually along his tea table and crossed at the ankles.

"You sure the turkey's gone?" he says. Under the buttery ceiling light, his snow-white hair appears almost golden.

"It was an eagle, and yes, I'm sure. What the fuck do you want it back for?" Utahime demands, peeved.

"To crush its leg myself, of course."

Utahime goes stock-still. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. Whatever retort she had prepared has died in her mouth. A few beats drag by as she struggles to regain her bearings.

"I don't need your help," she says, hating the unrecognisable emotion that has gathered in her chest. It feels too warm and too soft, and she wants it gone until she is all edge and burrs again. "In fact"—the words come rushing out of nowhere—"some day, you might even need mine."

Gojō laughs. He laughs that infuriating laugh, and she's tempted for the nth time to throttle him. Then he looks at her from the side, and the air crystallises in her lungs as a brilliant blue eye bores into her behind dark sunglasses.

His hand briefly settles on the ruby-red bow in her hair.

"Don't let me down then," he says. "Utahime."

He rises and bends over her like a large, rangy cat, and for the next hour, all thoughts of the baseball match are forgotten.

She awakens in Hell.

The night sky yawns before her, starless and blue-black and tinged with auburn. The smoke is a hoary film, striated by shimmering reddish spires of flames. Sweat pearls on her flushed skin, and she licks her lips, the viscous, metallic remnants of blood on her tongue. Her sanguineous hair is plastered to her cheeks and neck, and grime coats her once-white kosode.

The building as she knows it has collapsed; she is lying on an island of glass and rubble. The pungent smoke is unbearable, and she sits up slowly, hacking and coughing as she peers through the labyrinth of ruins. Surely there has to be someone, anyone, amidst the twirling, sizzling gold ember particles.

But Sukuna and the one-eyed Cursed Spirit are gone. All that is left is destruction.

With her visibility at an all-time low, she flounders, attempting to seek purchase with any object around, and her palms scrape on a block of blistering cement. She hisses, quailing as her singed nerve endings riot.

Wait. Palms?

Utahime stares down at both her sooty hands. They are intact, along with her arms, as if one of them was never gone in the first place. The sweltering heat is nigh intolerable, scorching her alive, but she is too dumbstruck to care.

That is impossible. One of her arms was severed. Not even Shōko, with her talent in RCT, can reattach her arm back. This would require phenomenal, even genius skill in RCT, and the only person she knows who can do that is Gojō—only Gojō doesn't know how to use RCT on anyone but himself.

And of course, Gojō isn't here.

There is only one individual she knows who can perform such a feat of RCT on another…

"Sukuna," Utahime whispers, the name clogging her throat like the evil, caustic smoke. "Where are you?"

Just how long was she out? It could have been an hour, maybe even more. And Sukuna is gone. He's fucking gone, after all the work and risks she undertook to try to manipulate him. She needs him to take down Getō, or whoever Getō's impersonator is.

What the fuck is she supposed to do now?

It's then that she notices how close the fire is, its sultry tendrils lapping on fallen pillars and creeping to her boots, the soles of which are battered from the jutting debris. She is bloody and tearing and sweating, and even with her arm reattached, there is a piece of her that remains gone. It's tempting to let the flames put an end to the rest of her, including her grief.

But the easy way out is not the answer.

And she will not let Gojō down.

Utahime catapults to her feet, and runs. She is just in time. More wood and glass screech before a new seismic wave jogs the asphalt. It almost rocks her off-balance as a window from a neighbouring half-building crashes down in a long deafening shriek behind her. She doesn't look back at the shrapnel, but continues to sprint.

Somewhere in the mountainous rubble, a tattered piece of a ruby-red ribbon begins to burn.

Yuuji wishes he were dead.

Even so, what's the point? It won't bring anyone back. It won't bring back the thousands who died in Shibuya from Malevolent Shrine, or Inumaki-senpai's arm, or Nanami, or Nobara—

His body seizes up. He can't let his thoughts go there now. Sukuna is gone now, suppressed, and Yuuji has avenged Nanami and Nobara, at least. With Tōdō's help, he's defeated Mahito.

But now Mahito is the least of his worries.

The man that Mahito called Getō has appeared. He'd sucked Mahito up like the Cursed Spirit was just a piece of gum, and swallowed him whole. And on his left palm sat a bluish-grey cube, covered all over in what appeared to be closed eyelids.

Yuuji's heart had juddered as an invisible spear seemed to lance right through it. The next thing he knew, he was running, hand outstretched towards the sorcerer called Getō, a pure, undiluted desperation and yearning wracking every cell of his being.

Trapped in that cube was the man who changed his life; the man who picked him up at his lowest and led him to new doors, and a new home. Who led him to Nobara, and Nanami, and now Yuuji was about to lose all three.

"Give—" he'd screamed. "—Gojō-sensei back!"

He couldn't reach Getō. He'd tried, over and over, but the never-ending influx of Getō's bestial Cursed Spirits kept him at bay. He'd almost wept with relief when the Kyoto students had shown up—the blonde chick with the broomstick, the blue-haired one with the sword, the sniper girl, the guy with his eyes closed—but that skirmish hadn't lasted long either. Getō had outmanoeuvred them all.

It didn't matter as more of Yuuji's allies trickled in. Getō—or whoever this impersonator was, according to Panda—was unstoppable. And he had an ally of his own too: a white-haired sorcerer, their features androgynous.

And now Yuuji is rooted to the spot, stricken with horror as Fake Getō summons what seems like hundreds of grotesque Cursed Spirits from the open ground. It is a horror reel animated and come to life. His companions, too, are frozen by the freakshow.

Yet despite this monstrosity and the impending carnage it promises, all Yuuji can stare helplessly at is the cube in Fake Getō's hand. His heart is thrashing so much his ribs are about to rupture.

He has to seize it somehow. He can't let it slip away. There has to be something he can do, something—

"Stop!"

Yuuji whirls around. He recognises the newcomer, though not immediately—the woman's long ebony hair is dishevelled and let loose down the sides of her face rather than pinned by its signature ribbon. There's also the fact that her ashen face is as splattered with blood as his is, and that her clothes are so filthy they're near unrecognisable.

"Sensei?" the blonde girl on the broomstick shouts. "What are you—you're not supposed to be out on the front lines!"

Yuuji squints. Some of Utahime's rumpled bangs are parted, revealing her forehead. But the skin there is not smooth and unblemished as he might expect. On it is a mark: black and shaped like a fingernail pointing south, framed by two equally black jagged slashes.

The design is familiar. He could swear he has seen this before. There's something about it that makes his stomach roil.

And then it hits him, with the intensity of a freight train.

"Oh?" Fake Getō says, amused. His thin brow arches as he continues to study her. Then he sighs. "It looks like I've no choice then, if he's chosen you."

The multiple eyes on the cube have opened. All of them are a piercing, vivid blue, reminiscent of the ocean.

Utahime cries out. One of the Cursed Spirits nearest to her has captured her arm. Twice her size and height, it pulls her as if she were but a toy. The Kyoto students turn for her, but are overwhelmed by the other Curses crowding them.

"Sensei!" the blue-haired girl in the pantsuit screams.

Yuuji punches a fat, swollen green Curse floating in front of him, powering all of his cursed energy into the blow. The creature explodes in a flurry of ichor, but he knows this is far from enough. There are simply too many of them.

He has never felt more hopeless than he does now.

"Goodbye, Itadori Yuuji." Fake Getō's voice is smooth, and his liquid dark eyes gleam as Yuuji whips around towards him. By the imposter's side is Iori Utahime, her complexion waxen, Sukuna's mark a stain on her flesh. Fake Getō holds up the cube to his cheek, smiling.

"Gojō-sensei!" Yuuji roars.

"I'll be looking forward to your performance," Fake Getō murmurs. Black shadows rise from the earth like foul pools of tar, enveloping both him and the whey-faced woman.

"Sensei! Utahime-sensei!" The Kyoto students are howling, slashing through as many Curses in their way as they can. "Give her back!"

But even Yuuji knows it is too late.

The last thing he sees before the hungry shadows devour them whole are the slitted blue eyes on the vanishing cube, swivelling and glimmering as if with tears.

Chapter Text

"Have you taught your kids this yet?"

Utahime gestures at the document she'd typed out on her laptop. Gojō leans forward to take a look, his hands in his trouser pockets.

"'Spy work'?" he reads.

"Listen," she presses. "There was a mole in Kyoto High as you said. Well, it got me thinking—we need to learn to catch this." Not that she wants to, but she doesn't have a choice. If she and her students are not vigilant—if they're not trained in subterfuge themselves—they may be deceived again one day. While the average sorcerer isn't always a spy, perhaps learning to be one can be helpful. "So I've been researching and thinking of adding this to the class curriculum somehow. You should too."

Gojō settles back against the expensive sofa, steepling his fingers thoughtfully together. He speaks.

"Much as I want to say the Great Teacher Gojō Satoru has already covered all the bases..."

"This isn't your speciality," Utahime finishes. Of course it isn't. Someone as powerful as Gojō doesn't need to resort to subterfuge. He can just waltz in and call the shots. "Well, you should still buck up and do something about it for your kids, Gojō. It's important. Just look at what happened recently."

There's a brief pause, and then Gojō laughs, folding his arms behind his platinum head.

"Gojō, seriously—"

"Ah, well," he says. "I'm sure it'll all work out somehow~"

Utahime seethes. "Will you take this seriously?! It's not like I like the idea of becoming some spy either. But if I want to teach it, I'll need to master this, and that means—"

"It's not a bad idea. Just don't forget yourself while you do it."

That catches her off-guard. "What?"

He holds up his finger. "Who you are, your mindset, what you're really fighting for. Allllll that."

His mouth lifts in a smile under his dark sunglasses.

"Make sure you hold the hell onto it, Utahime."

His name is Kenjaku.

That's the first piece of intel Utahime gathered.

They are in Kyoto. It's ironic that she's back home, and yet she's never felt more alienated in her life. Getō's impersonator—or Kenjaku, as his white-haired companion calls him—had used his Cursed Spirit to teleport them to a small temple on the outskirts of town.

It's a traditional Japanese one nestled in the woods, lit by the full moon and corralled by towering cedar trees and shrubs. The modest building is raised slightly above the earth on wooden stilts, with its roof, which curves gracefully upwards at the sides, perched atop thick, dark cypress beams. The verandah snakes around the temple's perimeter, its floorboards a deep amber.

Kenjaku leads them to the entrance—a vast wooden gate. Stone lanterns that glow tangerine line the stone pathway, and Utahime steps slowly after the two curse users into the main hall inside, her heart racing. She bites her cheek and braces herself for the stench of bloodshed inside—some monstrosity that may await her—but the air is simply filled with the faint scent of incense.

The floor is made of polished cypress wood, and a simple yet beautiful altar stands at the front, adorned with offerings—flowers, jasmine rice, and fruit. A golden statue of some unknown deity sits serenely in the centre, surrounded by candles and incense sticks slowly burning away.

By all accounts, she ought to fit in here, particularly in her miko robes. But her robes are torn and defiled with soot and blood, and the man before her is holding the one she loves hostage. This is a jigsaw puzzle with all the wrong tabs and blanks, but she's still here anyway, pretending she belongs.

"... the Prison Realm?" the white-haired sorcerer is saying.

Utahime breathes in sharply. Her eyes dart to the cube in Kenjaku's hand. The eyelids all over it are closed now, but she remembers the familiar stunning aquamarine blue they had been.

Even now, an ache lingers in her belly.

Tempting as it is to try to grab the cube, she knows that'll just make her a fool. Kenjaku, who is also capable of Cursed Spirit Manipulation, must be at the same level as Getō is: a Special Grade. Utahime can't tackle that, not to mention she doesn't know how powerful his white-headed aide is. And if she fails, and betrays her motives, she'll most likely be killed instantly.

It's a miracle she's here at all.

"I'll be sealing it in the Japan Trench, eight thousand metres below sea level," Kenjaku says. "Of course, to be sure—"

"You should dispatch your best Cursed Spirits there," the white-haired sorcerer adds, oblivious to Utahime's mounting horror.

"That would be the plan." Kenjaku smiles. "Just to be sure. Or as sure as anyone can be when it comes to Gojō Satoru."

"If you make a mistake, Kenjaku—" his aide hisses.

Utahime can barely hear them. Her lungs are shrinking. How is she, or anyone, supposed to free Gojō if the cube is sealed under those conditions? No one can survive it—forget the Cursed Spirits, the water pressure will kill them first. Ironically, the only sorcerer that might be able to withstand said conditions is the one inside the cube.

But what's the point if no one can free him from the cube in the first place?

Her mouth goes dry as Kenjaku slides the Prison Realm into the oversized sleeve of his midnight robes. Technically, she only has now to stop him. Any later, and the cube will be buried in the Japan Trench, and impossibly out of her or anyone's reach.

But how? How is she supposed to defeat a Special Grade sorcerer and snatch the cube? She's outnumbered too, at that. Is it worth giving herself away right now, or does she need to play the long game?

Long game for what? a voice whispers in her head. How are you going to rescue Gojō from the Japan Trench, Utahime?

"Tell me."

Utahime starts. Kenjaku's aide is staring at her now—no, they're glaring.

"Why," the aide demands, "did Sukuna-sama choose you?"

Utahime looks at them. It's hard to ascribe a gender to them, given how androgynous their appearance is. Their white hair is cut in a bob that reaches their chin, and they're dressed in a monk's attire. Their expression has been mostly stoic so far, but now their lips are pulled back in rage.

"Uraume," Kenjaku says lazily, but the aide puts up their hand.

"I want to hear her answer," they say.

It strikes Utahime then: the answer she is seeking all along. Why she even infiltrated these bastards' ranks. Other than Gojō, there is one other person who may be capable of retrieving the Prison Realm from the sea.

The problem is finding him—and finding the means to manipulate him into doing it.

"Because I proved my loyalty to him," Utahime states, in response to Uraume. Her blood is roaring in her ears, but she somehow manages to keep her expression bland. "Are you saying you doubt his decision?"

"You wrench!"

Uraume, Utahime discovers, has a short temper. They're not at all like the serene monk they appear to be. She's not unaware of the similarities between them: Utahime, too, is no gentle priestess.

"Iori Utahime." It's Kenjaku speaking—and unlike Uraume, there is no aggression in his tone. It only unnerves her more. His sleek tone, his languorous mannerisms, the vague amusement underlying his body language; they match Getō to a tee. How is he impersonating Getō so well? How did he even get his body to so flawlessly replicate the late sorcerer? The only trait distinguishing him from Getō are the stitches across his forehead.

"You're the teacher of Kyoto Jujutsu High," Kenjaku continues. "And Getō Suguru and Gojō Satoru's former upperclassman. Of course, you never matched their talents, but to be fair, very few do."

Utahime bridles. It's ridiculous how she's letting herself get riled up in spite of the situation, and she catches herself.

"Soro Soro Kinku," Kenjaku says, and this time, she freezes up. "That's the name of your Cursed Technique, isn't it?"

This is bad. Disturbing. Whoever Kenjaku is, he has an unsettling amount of intel on Jujutsu High. It's probably how he managed to trap Gojō by unearthing his Achilles' heel… and that's not all. Utahime is certain Kenjaku has more plans in store for the others.

"Why would Sukuna-sama be interested in that?" Uraume sneers.

"Shall we have ourselves a demonstration, then?" Kenjaku is striding past her now, his voluminous black robes billowing behind him. "Come."

Utahime swallows. She doesn't know if what she's doing is right—or if she's about to make a giant mistake. But she can't exactly stay here and resist either. That'll only make her more suspicious than she already is.

With her hands fisted, she trails after Kenjaku back out to the open stone pathway. The abyss that is the woods yawns before them, transformed under the moon's argent gaze. The cedar trees tower in the distance, their branches weaving a lacework canopy against the star-strewn sky. Shards of moonlight pierce through the dark forest floor, turning fallen leaves to scattered coins of pale gold. The Stygian darkness between trees is sluiced by silver, revealing ghostly silhouettes of underbrush and fallen logs.

It's quiet, but Utahime can hear the soft, forlorn coo of birds in the background. The cicadas are gone, wiped out by the drop in temperature in October. She doesn't know whether she likes their silence—it's proof that summer has slipped into the fall of civilisation as she knows it.

And the person behind it is right in front of her.

"You'll use your Cursed Technique on Uraume," Kenjaku tells Utahime. "You can boost anyone's power, can you?"

"I…" She doesn't know what Uraume's power was. What exactly is she signing up to boost? "Right here?"

"Yes. Uraume, get ready."

"W–Wait." Utahime's heart is thudding. "I need time to set up. For maximum effect, I need music, and—"

"Do what you can at the moment," Kenjaku says. "Or are you unable?"

She looks into those thin dark slits for eyes that are Getō's, and her hectic pulse continues to ratchet. She wonders if he'll execute her on the spot if she refuses, and then her plan to get Sukuna to kill him will go up in flames.

"I can do it," Utahime says.

"This is a waste of time," Uraume begins, but Kenjaku waves them off.

"Give it a try, Uraume," he says. "Aren't you curious?"

Uraume's eyes narrow in disdain. But they stretch their hands out, aimed at the woods.

This is Utahime's cue, and she draws in a steadying breath. She refuses to perform a full dance or incantation, even if she has the time or music. She doesn't know what Uraume can do, and she's not dumb enough to give her utmost to help them with whatever they're about to unleash.

So she settles for the minimum: lowering her eyelids and concentrating, murmuring a simple chant under her breath. Her cursed energy swells within her, bubbling molten to the surface as she pinpoints where Uraume's presence is beside her.

And when she eventually lifts her lids again, it's to a different world.

Where it was dark and silvered before, it is now completely white.

The woods are transformed by a thick layer of ice clinging to every surface. Each fossilised branch and flower is outlined in crystal-clear ice, shimmering white as sunlight filters through. Her inhalations are crisp, almost biting, and the breaths that leave her seem to hang in the frigid air before dissolving. Icicles hang from the dead branches like delicate, glassy fingers, reaching for some kind of salvation far, far beyond them.

The forest floor beneath them, once a tangle of leaves and undergrowth, has morphed into a smooth expanse of white, broken only by an occasional splintered twig. In this glacier, Utahime can no longer hear the sounds of wildlife; the birds and crickets are silent, iced to death.

"Did you freeze the entire forest?" Kenjaku asks with interest.

"I… did." Uraume's eyes turn on Utahime. Where they were reproachful before, they're now blank. "And you're saying she can do more?"

Kenjaku smiles. Very gently, he blows on a piece of iced frost that has landed on his finger. It disintegrates into pure white dust.

"I think we've barely scratched the surface with her," he says.

Utahime can't believe she's doing this, but she doesn't have a choice.

She can hardly teach her students without conducting a mock lesson first, and while conducting it by herself seems the best course of action, she can't do that either.

See, she knows stupid Gojō isn't going to teach his kids about subterfuge. At best, he's just going to throw them on some spy mission with minimal instructions and a "good luck!". While the Tokyo kids aren't her responsibility, she can't in good conscience let this happen.

Ergo, she's now performing the mock lesson on Gojō as her student. It's the only way he can learn what to teach his kids, though she doubts the idiot will use much of her material.

But it's better than nothing.

She hadn't originally wanted to spend their days off together on work, but it can't be helped. The last thing she's looking forward to, really, is conducting a mock lesson on him again given how that's fared in the past, and she decides that Tokyo High is about to owe her one. They're costing her her holiday, and more importantly, her sanity.

She clears her throat now, glancing at her 'student' in his living room. Lounging on the sofa, he has on his usual black sunglasses and hateful smile. She'd made him get a notepad, which he currently has perched on his knee. Casually, he's twirling his pen in one adroit hand.

Knowing him, it's probably going to be this way the whole time.

Utahime quashes the thought. There's no point entertaining it now—she's made her decision, even if she feels vaguely like tearing her hair out.

"So," she says. She reminds herself she's not addressing Gojō, but her own students in this mock scenario. It's not easy to replace his galling image with her babies, but she soldiers on. "Listen, everyone. I know this is a little unorthodox from our usual Jujutsu lessons, but given the circumstances with… Mechamaru, we have no choice but to take what I'm about to share with all of you seriously."

She holds up a whiteboard, on which she's written in block letters: SUBTERFUGE.

"I'm aware this isn't in your wheelhouse," Utahime says, thinking particularly about the eccentric, giant Tōdō. "For a lot of you… Well. Subtlety isn't exactly your forte—"

"They must take after you, Utahime."

"—shut up!"

She rallies several deep breaths, trying not to bash Gojō's head in with the whiteboard. The mock lesson has barely even started and she's already losing it. No matter what, she has to keep it together, or the session will never take off.

"As I was saying," she grits out, ignoring the vein pulsing in her temple, "we will all need to acquire a new skill to fortify ourselves. It's not something we want to remember, but the truth is that we were fooled by one of our own. To keep this from happening again, we have to train ourselves in this field."

This is the part where she will usually ask if anyone has any questions or objections so far, but she'd be an idiot to do that here. That's just asking for hell from the troublemaker before her.

Wait. Is he… actually writing down what she's saying? Utahime squints as Gojō's pen moves across his notepad. Something like hope dawns in her chest. Maybe he isn't a lost cause, after all. He does care for his students, and he must be jotting down how she's starting the class so he can repeat it to Yuuji and the rest.

Maybe Utahime has been too harsh on Gojō. Maybe—

His pen lifts from the paper, and she goes still. The vein in her temple throbs again, and her fingers tighten around her whiteboard.

A cartoonish doodle of a penis sits on his notepad.

She closes her eyes. Counts to ten in her head. Tells herself that strangling Gojō will not be productive, regardless of how satisfying it will feel.

"As. I. Was. Saying," she repeats, her knuckles blanching. She doesn't look at the devil incarnate; all she will see is his grin, and that will be the last straw before she explodes. "When it comes to subterfuge, there are a few things I want all of you to remember before we get into the thick of it. First: it's okay to fail."

She uses her marker to write a number 1 on the whiteboard.

"I don't care how controversial this might be. If you're in a situation where you feel you can't maintain your cover any longer, leave. Try to escape before it's too late. I don't want any of you to push yourself to stay in a dangerous situation. It may be hard for you to believe this given all the brainwashing from the higher-ups, but none of you are human weapons to be used and disposed of, got it? I don't give a whit what your grade is. Your safety comes first."

Still not looking at Gojō, she writes a '2' below the first number.

"Secondly, there will probably be times where you feel uncertain and confused," she continues. "You may be asked to go undercover, but are unsure of how to reach your objective. Unsure, even, if you're on the right track; if obfuscation is the answer, when you're accustomed to other means. And I urge all of you not to jump into battle right away, no matter the temptation.

"In the midst of chaos, there may be opportunity. If you wait, it may just present itself. But you have to be patient. You have to wait. And when you least expect it, you may find something you can exploit. But it's not going to work if you start attacking your enemy on the spot—look at how effective Mechamaru's patience was, for example."

It pains Utahime to mention Mechamaru once more, enough for her to pause. But she has no choice. He will have to be brought up again and again, and she'll need to get used to it when she addresses her actual students.

Her eyes flicker to Gojō then. His lips are lifted in a ghost of a smile under his sunglasses, his fingers twirling his pen, but he is, she realises, listening. And as much as she can't stand him, that is more encouraging than she cares to—or will ever—admit.

For the lesson isn't just for the students. In a way, she's coaching herself about spywork too, and she hopes she's on the right track. And if even Gojō is listening, then perhaps she's onto something here.

Utahime summons another long breath, and begins writing on the whiteboard again.

Her class is officially in session.

Utahime has lost count of the number of days that have elapsed.

She ought to keep track, but it's difficult when she doesn't have her phone on her—or anything electronic—in this temple amidst the wilderness. All she has are a fresh change of clothes (another set of miko robes given to her by a sour-faced Uraume), her broken ribbon in her hair, and what remains of her wits.

Oddly enough, she hasn't been asked to demonstrate Soro Soro Kinku again, not since the first time. In fact, she hasn't been asked to do anything at all. She has been kept in solitary confinement in a room the entire time, with a tray of food arriving at fixed times for lunch and dinner. Nothing extravagant—just a bowl of unexpectedly flavourful white rice, along with a few strips of cooked pork belly and pickled cucumber. She's tried to count the number of trays she's gotten so far, but she's losing track and her brain is muzzy half the time.

She's scared. Disoriented. She spends more of her willpower trying not to panic than counting her food trays. She can't let herself regret her decision to come here, even if it feels more and more like a major misstep with every suffocating second. It's terrifying, not knowing how her students and the rest of Jujutsu Society are doing outside of this temple. Have more sorcerers died? What if one of her students…?

No. She can't think like that. If she does, she will fall apart, and she'll be of no help to anyone. She didn't come here to fret; she came because there was a way out. There has to be.

Perhaps Jujutsu Society will win, and Kenjaku will lose whatever war he is inciting. But the possibility of that plummets below 1% if Sukuna is in the picture, and judging by Kenjaku's decision to take Utahime in, he seems to be in cahoots with the King of Curses. The logistics or origins behind that, she doesn't know, but they hardly matter at present.

What matters is that no one stands a chance against Sukuna, and the only person who does is sealed in a cube in the Japan Trench.

What matters is that a piece of her heart is lost in the sea, too, and she cannot—cannot—live the rest of her life without that missing piece, even though she will never admit it aloud. It is ludicrous to even admit it in her head, not when she's spent the better part of her life wishing Gojō gone.

And now she is here, all alone, trying to undo old wishes and keep herself together at the same time. The hardest part is sitting within these four walls, staring at nothing. She's attempted to pry answers about what's going on outside the temple whenever Uraume shows up with food, but the monk ignores her every time. A part of her is tempted to make a break for it, but Uraume or Kenjaku may simply kill her for what they perceive as mutiny. And while Utahime is not afraid of death now, she is afraid of losing her objective.

She is here to save Gojō. Nothing more, and nothing less.

In the midst of chaos, there may be opportunity.

It's a mantra she recites inwardly, over and over, even as the four walls close in. When the silence becomes deafening, she screams the mantra in her head, her lungs swelling with a cry only she can hear. And when her eyes grow wet, she closes them and continues to scream until she is more steel than tears.

Then one evening, Uraume appears—without the dinner tray.

"Follow me," they say, their long-sleeved arms folded. Their voice is cold. Terse. Utahime can see the restraint in their stiff shoulders.

Uraume does not want Utahime to follow; that much is evident. But it appears Uraume does not have a choice.

Utahime doesn't gloat. She is too tired. Even without looking in a mirror, she knows she must look awful, with dark bruises under her eyes from sleepless nights spent fretting and spiralling. She's lost weight too, she's sure. It isn't that she isn't eating—she finishes the food tray every time, determined to keep her strength up for what may await her—but it's not enough.

Not when her own despair is eating her alive.

Kenjaku is nowhere in sight as Utahime trails after Uraume down the corridors of the temple. The place is quiet, the hush broken only by the tatami creaking under their feet. Uraume brings her to a flight of stairs at the end of the hallway, and Utahime swallows as she takes the first step down.

There are so many questions she wants to ask, but she doesn't. She will get the answer soon enough, and if she's being perfectly honest, she already has an inkling of what lies in store for her in the basement.

The sensation is familiar: of invisible nails caressing the bare skin under her miko robes. Testing her soft flesh… but not sinking in. Not yet.

She knows it. She remembers it. The terror she had felt before she'd been violated in the worst way is indelible—and her fingers close over her arm. There is no sign it was ever once split from her torso, at least not on the appendage itself.

The same cannot be said for her brain. Every now and then, she finds herself gripping her arm, as if trying to hold onto something once gone. The phantom aches and twinges in her shoulder joint wake her up frequently at night, her neck dripping cold sweat. Logically, her arm is healthy, but her mind is mired more in memory than fact.

She can see the bloodbath now, and she blinks, then again. Her fingers squeeze further over her arm, and her mouth trembles. The stench of metal punches through her airways like fists, and she struggles to breathe through it as she reaches the second last step into the basement.

This is not a memory.

This is reality.

Liquid yawns before her, dark red and evil. She doesn't take the final step down, not unless she wants to be submerged. The coppery reek tells her everything she needs to know about the viscid substance. She has seen it spilled time after time as a Jujutsu sorcerer, but she has never seen so much of it in a pool. It fills up the entirety of the floor in the dingy room, with only a lone lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The artificial glow gutters, rippling long shadows across the walls.

Uraume stands beside her on the same step, looking unfazed by the nightmare around them. Utahime, about to grab their shoulders and demand why they have brought her here, freezes at the sound of a soft splash.

Her heart surges into her throat. Every bone in her body has turned to ice, and it takes her considerable effort to turn towards the noise.

A dark head has emerged through the crimson surface. Wet black hair clings to the scalp, and her eyes thin as she tries to make sense of what she's seeing. She knows that pale face, and the pair of narrow dark eyes staring back at her. But not like this—those eyes have always held irritation, sometimes weariness, but none of those emotions are visible now.

She's not certain what emotion she is seeing at all here. It is like looking into a soulless void.

Utahime chokes out, "Megumi. What are you doing—"

Here, is what she means to say, but the word never breaks free. He has risen to his full height from the bloodbath, completely nude, and his lips curl upwards into a smirk that chills her blood. Ebony tattoos coil around his blood-drenched skin like serpents, with twin rings circling each of his honed arms.

No. No. Utahime's boot inches backwards, bumping into the wall of the stone step. This cannot be. Itadori Yuuji is the vessel, not Megumi.

What has happened since she left Tokyo? What pandemonium has unfolded in her absence?

How is she supposed to tell Gojō that he has lost another of his students to the King of Curses?

Maybe she should have stayed behind. Maybe if she'd remained with the others, she could have prevented this somehow. So far, she has achieved nothing by coming here.

Sukuna's arrival is vital to her plan, but she had never envisioned it like this. Unlike Yuuji, Megumi has absolutely no capability to fight off Sukuna's possession, meaning his will and mind are gone. This is all wrong, and it presages that everything she's about to attempt will go wrong too.

"Sukuna-sama." Uraume bows deeply. Utahime wants to bend over too, if only to vomit.

She doesn't, of course. It takes everything she has not to empty the meagre contents in her gut as she, too, bows. She doesn't have a choice but to mirror Uraume's gesture; after begging Sukuna to let her serve him at Shibuya station, it would be strange if she doesn't follow through now.

Her nails dig into her clammy palms. She'd assumed her resolve about her mission would eclipse her fear of Sukuna, but she realises now how naïve she's been. She is back in the train station again, her mouth sandpapery-dry as she stands microseconds away from getting her arm ripped out a second time.

She may lose more than her arm here—and it doesn't matter as much whether she makes a wrong move or not. In retrospect, she'd played all her cards right at the station… but she'd lost her arm anyway. If anything, it had been necessary to get her to this point now.

To escape an encounter with Sukuna unscathed is an impossibility. Utahime knows that, just as she knows her life may be forfeit with every Jujutsu mission she has taken on as a sorcerer. It's a risk she's always understood and accepted, so why is she so afraid here?

Why does she feel the same invisible noose around her throat, choking the life out of her? Her vision is bobbing in and out of focus, her knees threatening to give way until she topples headfirst into the sea of blood.

She cannot panic now. If she hyperventilates, it will all be over.

"Woman." Megumi's voice is gone, replaced by the sleek, hair-raising drawl from Shibuya. The invisible noose draws taut over her body, and she has to fight to stay on her feet. "That's an interesting Cursed Technique you have there."

The gears in her brain churn, ever so sluggishly. He's talking about Soro Soro Kinku. Have Uraume and Kenjaku informed him about it?

But why would that intrigue someone like him? Sukuna doesn't need a power boost. Then again, he is as unpredictable as a shark in the water. It's possible he might have taken Megumi as a vessel not only because the boy couldn't resist him, but also because of Megumi's Ten Shadows Technique. She can't expect to understand Sukuna's whims and interests, and her stomach twists.

She needs to figure out a way to save Megumi, too. But how?

A cold hand grips her chin, and Utahime's lungs shrivel at the slick sensation of blood right below her lips. He is quick—so disturbingly quick she didn't even see him approach. Her first instinct is to recoil and shove him off, but she tamps it down, her nails cutting painfully into her skin. Even so, she's not sure whether she manages to mask the fear in her eyes, the slackening of her mouth.

"Tell me," Sukuna says. "How far can you amplify someone's power?"

Let go of me, she wants to scream. Let go let go let go—

"T-Twice," she says hoarsely. "I can double their output."

Sukuna laughs.

It is the most ominous thing she's ever heard. And just like before, it is the only warning she gets before hell descends.

Something long and hard penetrates her mouth, forcing her lips apart. Her eyes fly wide open, and she thrashes and flails, frantic to resist, but it is like trying to push against iron. Something sharp and tapered prods her throat, making her gag, and vaguely in the back of her brain, she registers that it's a fingernail.

"Oi, oi. You can do better than that." Sukuna's deep, cruel laughter echoes over and over in her ears. "From now on, you're going to triple my output at minimum, as and when I want you to. How does that sound?"

Utahime cannot help herself. She shrieks, but all that emerges from her stretched lips is a gargle. Her eyes are watering; the world is a blur of terror and red blood. The hand on her chin seems to be made of granite. She feels weak, pathetic—there is nothing she can do to make Sukuna budge. Other than Gojō, there is no one else she has encountered that possesses such physical strength.

Sukuna's demonic laughter rises. She is dimly aware of the undertones in her position, his appendage shoved crudely into her mouth while she chokes for air.

It slides down her unwilling, convulsing throat, clawing at her in the process. Even as it disappears from her mouth, her gorge continues to constrict, struggling for breath. For it's no longer the finger that's obstructing her air supply, but blind, numbing terror.

Black spots erupt in her vision, bleeding into the creature's smirk before her. She can no longer feel her limbs; she is numb all over as biting ice infiltrates the marrow of her bones. The hand on her chin lets go, and the next thing she knows, she is falling. The only scorching sensation she can feel is his mark on her forehead, and seconds later, the same heat flares softly in between her breasts.

Sukuna has branded himself in a new spot deep inside of her—and there is nothing she can do to put out the fire except tear her own flesh out.

Utahime closes her eyes, and lets herself burn.

It's dark. Too dark.

Way too dark for Gojō to be out of bed, and Utahime squints disbelievingly as she lifts her head from her pillow beside his. For a second, she wonders if she's dreaming.

Maybe she is. She doesn't know. He's standing by the doorway of his bedroom, tugging on his blindfold. He's already in his dark zip-up jacket and trousers—which he typically wears for work, and which he certainly hadn't worn to bed with her last night—and she frowns. Hadn't he freed up a few days from work because she was coming here?

To be fair, she'd still enforced work on him with her sudden decision to launch spywork into Jujutsu High's curriculum. After she was done with her mock lesson yesterday, he'd given feedback, and it wasn't pretty. He'd been blunt, citing issue after issue until she wanted to garotte him with the ribbon in her hair.

Instead, she had ground her teeth and written down his feedback on her own notepad. His critiques, albeit brutally candid, had been constructive, and she knew it. She'd reworked her curriculum into the late hours of the night while a smiling Gojō lounged on his leather Barcelona chair, his arms folded behind his head as he watched her. She'd snapped at him to retire without her, but insolent twat that he was, he'd ignored her.

So what is he doing now at the cusp of dawn, before the sun has even risen?

"Ah. Sorry. Principal Yaga called," he says, his long finger snapping free from his blindfold.

Utahime is too weary to even sigh. She doesn't need to ask. There are always emergencies where Gojō is concerned—either a Special Grade Curse has materialised, or a mission has gone awry somewhere and Gojō is needed to go to the rescue. The good thing is that it doesn't usually take long for him to get the job done.

"When you come back, get some more sleep, understand?" she says. Their original plan today was to hit up a new ramen place and attend a baseball match together—a date, she supposes one would say—but she refuses to head out unless he's napped. "If I catch you using RCT to avoid sleep again—"

"Oh, one more thing. I nearly forgot."

Utahime pushes up from his king-sized bed, about to rip him a new one, but he continues, oblivious to her ire.

"About the ribbon I gave you—I told you what's in it, right?"

"What?" Her brows beetle. He'd gifted her the hair ribbon ages ago, which was coloured scarlet instead of the white versions she usually wore. "What do you mean?"

"Eh? Did I really forget, then?"

Utahime pinches the bridge of her nose, her other hand holding the blanket over her chest. For the nth time, she reminds herself that throttling Gojō will not be productive.

"Simply put: I placed some cursed energy into it," he says, and her eyes jerk back towards him. He's leaning against the door, his hands in his jacket pockets. Even through the blindfold, she can tell he's studying her in her state of dishabille. "Utahime, you'll be able to use Infinity twice before it runs out."

Her jaw nearly unhinges itself. Use… Infinity? Had she misheard him?

She must have. The mere thought of utilising Gojō's famous technique is enough to make her reel.

"Well, it's nothing extravagant, of course," he says. "Don't expect to use it for offense, so if you're thinking of opening Unlimited Void—"

"I was not!"

She doesn't need the reminder that she has yet to master her own Domain Expansion. At her age, it's possible she never will, though hope springs eternal. Not that she's admitted any hopes out loud, and she certainly won't in front of Gojō Satoru.

"Hold the ribbon, voice where you want to travel, aaand off you go!" he says. "You can write the destination down too, though the effect will be slower."

He means his teleportation technique, she realises. This is what he's inscribed into the ribbon, to offer her something like an emergency exit during missions.

"How are you," she demands, "only telling me this now after months—"

The sound of buzzing pierces the air, and Utahime scowls as Gojō takes his phone from his jacket pocket. It's obvious Yaga is yelling at him through text or call to hurry up, and she decides that her issues with Gojō's horrible sense of timing can wait. Once he's back, they will have a long, long talk.

She need only wait for his return.

Uraume serves dinner later that night, though Utahime, curled up in the corner of her room, makes no move to touch the tray. Uraume doesn't appear to care; their lips curl in a sneer as they regard her before they turn gracefully on their heel and close the door behind them.

Utahime stays motionless. She'd regained consciousness only a while ago to find herself lying within the same four walls she's stared at for God knows how many days. Sukuna is gone, and she doesn't want to know where he is.

Still, does it matter where he's gone? With one of his fingers inside her, he can control her whenever she wants, and there is little she can do to stop him. Neither she nor Megumi has Yuuji's strange ability to ward Sukuna off. If she does possess it, she'll find out soon enough.

The question is: what is she supposed to do now?

It's not like she hasn't debated for a long time whether to use the tattered half of her ribbon to get out of here. But she's been waiting and biding her time until Sukuna's arrival, hoping she could manipulate him to save Gojō. Nothing changes the fact that only Sukuna can subjugate Kenjaku and retrieve the Prison Realm from the Japan Trench. Even if Gojō miraculously manages to escape the Realm by himself, Utahime can't let him face the destructive pressure eight thousand metres below sea level, while dealing with whatever high-level Cursed Spirits Kenjaku has planted there.

She has to help ease his burden in any way she can.

And she has an idea.

It is feckless lunacy, what she has in mind, but it is better than nothing at all. It may only make a small difference, but every bit goes a long way towards rescuing Gojō. He has spent so much of his life saving others, and now Utahime will fight tooth and nail to do the same for him.

She untangles the broken piece of scarlet silk from her hair, running her fingers over its jagged, ruined edges. A sob threatens to seize her body, and she brings the ribbon to her lips. It is dry and cold.

If she manages to save him, she will never take his return for granted again. And if she had a choice, she would never let anyone hurt him again either—even if he might be strong enough to take it, to vanquish it.

For the title of Strongest is not a gift but a punishment, and Gojō has been punished enough. Kenjaku killing him would have been a mercy compared to his masquerade as his late best friend, and Utahime's hands clench into fists over the ribbon.

One step at a time, she thinks. Her enmity towards Kenjaku can wait.

She reaches for the food tray. There is a saucer of soy sauce paste next to the rice bowl, and she dips her pinkie into the gelatinous substance.

Inhaling once, and then again, she gently traces her tainted finger onto the ribbon, forming the clumsy outline of kanji characters with the dark paste. It takes more time than she expects to get the words out properly, and the muscles in her finger are quivering once she is done.

It is now or never.

Still holding the ribbon, Utahime licks her lips. Her heart is drumming madly in her chest as she commands her stiff vocal cords to work. It is hard to hear her own cracked voice amidst the bellow of blood in her ears, but she does not need to hear herself for the technique to work.

She simply needs to bring herself to utter the words.

"Take me to the Prison Realm," she whispers.

Take me to Gojō.

One blink later, and she is there.