Chapter Text
TIME PROGRESSION: 2025
Himari Nakamura was the epitome of the quiet loner. At Japan National College, no one had to ask her name; they already knew her by the way she walked through the halls—head slightly down, eyes sharp, always avoiding attention. She wasn’t interested in anyone’s opinion—she had long learned not to care about being liked. And that was how it had always been.
Her classmates didn’t know what to make of her, so they gossiped.
"Don’t even think about crossing her," someone would whisper to a new student.
"Did you see her fight that guy last week? She’s scary," another would add.
The rumours weren’t baseless. Himari had earned a reputation for being untouchable. She wasn’t someone who looked for trouble, but trouble always seemed to find her. When it did, she fought back—not with rage, but with a calm, calculated efficiency that left her opponents bruised, humiliated, and too scared to try again.
Her fights weren’t about showing off or proving her strength. They were about necessity. If someone was bullying another student or pushing her boundaries too far, Himari intervened. She fought only when it was the last resort, but her victories were swift and absolute.
Yet her triumphs came at a cost. Most people avoided her. Not because she was cruel—Himari wasn’t the type to lash out or hurt others without reason. But her quiet strength and icy demeanour were enough to intimidate anyone who thought about approaching her.
For Himari, it didn’t matter. She preferred the solitude. As long as people kept their distance, she was fine.
The orphanage was another world entirely. It was cold and sterile, the kind of place where laughter was rare and the walls seemed to absorb every cry for attention. But for Himari, it was the only home she had ever known.
Since she was a child, she had taken on the role of protector. It didn’t matter if the kids were younger or older than her—Himari was their big sister. When nightmares struck and the staff were too busy, she was the one who stayed up late, holding their hands and whispering reassurances until they fell asleep.
The orphanage staff meant well, but they were overworked. There were too many children and not enough resources to go around. Himari often felt like she was holding the place together like her presence was the glue that kept the cracks from widening.
Sometimes, the weight of it all felt unbearable. She’d stay up long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring out the window at the city lights, wondering if life would always feel this heavy.
One night, while tidying up, Himari noticed a group of younger kids huddled together in the corner of the common room. They were poring over a manga, their faces lit with excitement. Curious, she walked over and glanced at the cover.
Jujutsu Kaisen.
The title intrigued her, but it was their enthusiasm that caught her attention.
"Can I borrow this?" she asked, holding up the first volume.
The kids nodded eagerly, their eyes wide with surprise. It wasn’t often that Himari showed interest in their activities.
That night, after the younger children had gone to bed, Himari stayed up reading. She was drawn in immediately by the story—by its themes of courage, sacrifice, and the bonds between people. One character in particular caught her attention: Megumi Fushiguro. His stoic nature and sense of responsibility reminded her of herself. Like Himari, he carried the weight of others on his shoulders, often at his own expense.
From that point on, Jujutsu Kaisen became a rare escape for her. She read through the manga whenever she had a spare moment and eventually started watching the anime on her phone.
Her phone was her lifeline to the outside world. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a modest device she had purchased with money from her part-time job at a local restaurant. The job, though exhausting, was necessary. It helped her pay for essentials and allowed her to contribute to the orphanage in small but meaningful ways.
Life at Japan National College was no easier than life at the orphanage. Academic expectations were high, and the social dynamics were even more exhausting. Himari had no interest in fitting in or climbing the social ladder, but that didn’t mean she was immune to the pressure.
Her classmates watched her from a distance, their eyes filled with a mix of admiration and fear. She was the girl who always sat alone, who never raised her hand in class but still managed to excel academically.
On particularly rough days, she found herself retreating into the world of Jujutsu Kaisen. It wasn’t just a story to her—it was a lifeline. The characters’ struggles, and their determination to protect what mattered to them, reminded her of her own life.
She especially loved watching Yuji Itadori’s unyielding optimism in the face of overwhelming odds. It was a perspective she didn’t often allow herself to have, but it gave her hope.
One evening, as Himari was finishing her shift at the restaurant, she overheard a conversation between two coworkers about the latest episode of Jujutsu Kaisen.
"Did you see how intense that fight was? Gojo’s power is insane!"
Himari smiled faintly, surprising herself. It was a small moment, but it reminded her that even in her isolation, she wasn’t entirely alone. There were others out there who shared her love for the series, and who found inspiration in its characters just as she did.
But even the small comforts of manga and anime couldn’t erase the challenges of her daily life.
One night, Himari stayed up late again, reading through a news article about another orphanage scandal. The article described horrific conditions—understaffing, neglect, and even abuse.
Her chest tightened as she glanced around her own home. The walls were chipped, the carpet wore thin, and there were more kids than anyone could properly care for.
“This is no better,” she muttered, her voice heavy with frustration.
She looked at the younger children sleeping soundly in their beds, their faces peaceful and untroubled. It was for them that she stayed strong, that she fought so hard.
Himari often thought about her future. She wanted to become a teacher, to provide the security and warmth that so many children lacked. Teachers in Japan were expected to do more than teach—they were responsible for their students’ well-being, and for shaping them into respectful, well-rounded individuals. It was a daunting job, but Himari felt she was already doing it in her way at the orphanage.
The night it all changed was like any other. Himari was sitting in the common room, reading yet another article about orphanage conditions in Japan.
The sound of a loud crash from the street snapped her out of her thoughts. Looking up, she saw a child running into the road, completely unaware of the oncoming truck.
She didn’t think. She ran.
The world seemed to slow as Himari bolted out the door, her heart pounding. She reached the child just in time, shoving them out of the truck’s path.
The impact came a split second later.
The last thing she remembered was the coldness of the pavement and the sound of sirens in the distance.
Even as her consciousness faded, Himari felt a sense of peace. She had done what she had always promised to do—she had protected those who couldn’t protect themselves.
At that moment, she realized that her strength, her sacrifices, and even her loneliness had all been worth it.
Because for Himari Nakamura, protecting others was all she had ever known.
And then Himari couldn’t make sense of it. Her head felt like it was spinning, but there was a strange clarity in her confusion. She had been in the middle of saving that child. The rush of adrenaline, her body moving without thought to push them out of the way of the truck. The memory lingered, but now, all there was was this feeling of... nothingness.
The truck hadn’t hurt as much as she thought it would, but there was still a dull ache throughout her like something wasn’t quite right. She hoped the kid was okay. She hadn’t seen them after the impact, but the thought of the child still worried her. She hoped they weren’t hurt.
But then, the cold. It was freezing. Unbearably cold, as if the air itself had frozen. She tried to move, but the cold seemed to seep into every inch of her being. She wanted to curl up, to hide from it, but something was stopping her. Why was it so cold? Where was she? Was this what death felt like?
Her thoughts jumbled together, each one more confusing than the last. She tried to think, tried to make sense of where she was, but the cold made it hard to focus. Then, there was a sharp slap—loud and startling. It burned against her skin, and her body tensed as the sound echoed in her mind.
What was that?
She cried out in response, her voice small and strange in her ears. It wasn’t a sound she’d ever made before—high-pitched, desperate. She couldn’t understand why she was crying, only that something had caused it. The air felt wrong. Too bright. Too loud.
She couldn’t see, and it made everything more overwhelming. She tried to blink, to focus, but there was nothing. Just brightness. Where was she? Why couldn’t she see? Why couldn’t she make sense of anything?
And then—warmth.
Suddenly, she was lifted, her body cradled gently, and warmth spread through her, soothing the cold that had gripped her. It was like nothing she’d ever known before. It wasn’t just physical warmth; it was something deeper, something that made her feel safe, and protected. She nuzzled instinctively against it as if it were the most natural thing to do. It felt like comfort, like shelter.
She didn't know why or how, but it felt like everything was shifting from chaos to peace. The soft fabric against her skin, the steady rise and fall of something nearby, and the feeling of being held, all made her feel like she was home, even though she couldn’t understand where that was.
She couldn’t see, but she could feel. The warmth, the heartbeat, the steady rhythm. Her body relaxed into it. It wasn’t the cold world she had been in before. She was somewhere else now. Somewhere safe. Her cries slowly died down, turning into soft sighs as she melted into the warmth, her tiny body cradled against the person who held her.
She didn’t know why she was here or what had happened, but in that moment, she knew she was cared for. She didn’t have to understand the rest. She was safe, and that was enough.
Date: 1988 - December 22nd
The air was thick with the sound of an urgent, sharp cry as the baby’s first breath echoed throughout the sterile delivery room. It was the cry that would mark her arrival into the world, but it was a cry that felt far too loud, too sharp against the soft noises of the womb she’d just left.
Megumi’s tiny body was wriggling, drenched in amniotic fluid, as the doctor, with a quick motion, cut the umbilical cord. A gentle slap on her bare, cold bottom followed a common practice to encourage her to breathe. The shock of the cold, the bright fluorescent lights, and the sudden, unfamiliar sensation of air in her lungs were overwhelming, and her cries intensified.
But amidst the chaos of the room, a calm, steady presence filled the space. The moment Toji lifted her from the doctor’s hands, her tiny body stopped wriggling, and the frantic cries began to quiet.
Toji, who had been standing at the edge of the room, watching anxiously, gently cradled his daughter to his chest, his large hands wrapped around her with an almost unnatural tenderness. The soft fabric of his hospital gown brushed against her skin, and Megumi’s cries faded away into quiet, gentle sniffles. His warmth, or perhaps the absence of anything else—his lack of cursed energy, a complete void—created a peaceful, soothing blanket of calm around her. She could sense it: no overwhelming currents of cursed energy like the rest of the world pulsed with, no chaos in his presence. Just calm.
Toji exhaled a long breath of relief, glancing over at his wife, Akira. Their eyes met, and even in the whirlwind of emotions swirling around them, Toji’s gaze softened. Akira, though tired and pale, smiled faintly, her face illuminated by the love she felt for the tiny life that had just joined them.
“Toji…” she whispered, her voice weak but filled with joy, “Is she… is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Toji replied softly, his voice unusually gentle. He had never been one to show much sentiment, but at this moment, there was a softness to his words that seemed unfamiliar. He gently rubbed his hand down Megumi’s back, a soothing gesture, as though the simple act could reassure her in a way words couldn’t.
His eyes lingered on her tiny face, which was scrunched up in confusion as her body adjusted to the world outside the womb. She looked so small, so fragile, yet there was a strength to her, a quiet resilience that reminded him of something. Something he had long lost touch with, but something he swore he would always protect. His heart softened as he continued to hold her, her little body fitting perfectly into the crook of his arm.
“Megumi,” he said, his voice a low whisper as he gazed down at her. “She’ll be called Megumi.”
Akira smiled tiredly, but the weight of the moment caught her. She shifted slightly, still trying to recover from the ordeal of birth, but the sight of her daughter, finally in Toji’s arms, made her heart ache with an overwhelming sense of love.
“Our little blessing,” she murmured, her words as much a promise as a declaration. She reached out to touch the tiny hand that gripped Toji’s finger, marvelling at how such a small creature could already possess so much potential.
The doctor, who had been quietly observing the exchange, couldn’t help but flinch under Toji’s glare. He had never seen the man so calm, so steady—until now. He had been expecting a more frantic, emotional father, but instead, Toji’s eyes burned with a quiet intensity. The kind of intensity that sent a chill down the doctor’s spine. Toji had been watching closely, and when the doctor had given the small baby a sharp slap, Toji’s gaze had been enough to make him reconsider his actions. It had been a warning, one that was not lost on the doctor.
When Toji gently passed Megumi to Akira, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride. This was his daughter. His flesh and blood. And he would do anything to protect her.
Akira took their daughter with a soft sigh of relief, adjusting her in her arms as she settled back against the pillows. Megumi, now in the warmth of her mother’s embrace, relaxed further, her little hands curling up into tiny fists as her body sought comfort.
For the first time since her birth, Megumi began to fall into a deep sleep, the kind of peaceful slumber that only newborns could manage. There was a brief moment when she nuzzled into Akira’s chest, finding comfort in the sound of her heartbeat and the familiar warmth of her mother.
“She’s perfect,” Akira whispered, kissing the top of her baby’s head as Megumi, finally soothed, let out a soft sigh.
And as the baby drifted off to sleep, the world seemed to pause for just a moment—an intimate, fleeting peace amidst the 3chaos of their lives.