Chapter Text
The rain had a way of seeping into everything in Tokyo. It soaked the sidewalks, blurred the neon signs outside the window, and left the air thick with dampness. Utahime pressed her palms together in her lap, willing her restless hands to still.
Yaga's office hadn’t changed in the years since she’d first stepped into it as a cadet. Bookshelves sagged under the weight of military histories and case files, and the smell of tobacco clung to the wooden panels despite his promise to quit years ago. He was still imposing as ever, with the kind of eyes that seemed out of place on a man who had seen more wars than he ever admitted to.
He studied her now from behind his desk, fingers steepled under his chin, expression unreadable. That was the worst part. He had always been able to read her, but when he hid his own thoughts, she felt like a child again - waiting to be scolded and reminded of her limits.
“You’re still working at that academy, aren’t you?” His gravelly voice broke the silence.
Utahime nodded once. “Training recruits. Keeping them from killing each other in sparring.” She hesitated, then added, “It doesn’t pay enough.”
The words sounded sharper than she intended, but what else could she say? Her life was a careful balancing act, and no matter how many hours she put into the job, the numbers in her bank account refused to match the reality of her needs.
Yaga’s gaze softened slightly. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “You asked me to look for alternatives. But you know jobs like that usually come with a price.”
“I don’t care about the price,” Utahime said quickly. “I can handle danger. I’ve been through worse. You know I have.”
Images pressed at the edge of her thoughts - smoke, collapsed buildings, the metallic scent of blood that never seemed to wash off her skin even years later. Tsumiki’s small, shaking body in her arms that night, the girl’s breath shallow and uneven, as if the world had already decided she didn’t deserve more time. Utahime shoved the memory back where it belonged, locked tight in the corner of her mind.
“This isn’t about you handling it,” Yaga said after a long pause. “It’s about whether it’s worth the risk.”
Utahime lifted her chin. “It is.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated herself for it. But how could she not falter when the weight pressing on her chest had a name, a face, and a pair of tired eyes?
Tsumiki was fourteen now, but she looked younger. She was too pale and thin, her body betraying her in ways no child’s should. Shoko had been blunt - because Utahime had begged her not to soften the truth. Pulmonary Arterial Hypertension. A rare and dangerous condition in which the heart and lungs were locked in a cruel tug-of-war, and every breath costed more effort than it should.
Shoko’s hands had trembled once when she admitted she couldn’t treat it, and Utahime had never forgotten the helpless look in her friend. If even Shoko couldn’t help, then the answer was money - money for specialists, treatments overseas, and whatever experimental therapies might buy her more years.
“I’m running out of time,” Utahime whispered. She stared down at her hands, noticing the faint calluses still marking her knuckles from sparring with recruits. Hands that could fight, defend, kill if she had to - but hands that couldn’t fix Tsumiki.
Finally, Yaga sighed. “There is one possibility.”
Her head snapped up, and for a moment, she let herself hope.
“It pays well,” he continued. “Better than anything else I could offer you right now. Enough to cover hospital bills, maybe even the experimental treatments you’ve been looking into.” He hesitated, and that hesitation made her stomach twist. “But it’s not the kind of work you’ve done before.”
Utahime’s pulse quickened. “What is it?”
He studied her face carefully, as if weighing how much to tell her. “Protection. Bodyguard work. For someone who’s… unpredictable.”
The word hung in the air with unspoken meaning. Unpredictable didn’t just mean dangerous. It meant uncontrollable. It meant reckless, volatile, maybe even impossible to protect.
“I don’t care who it is,” Utahime said firmly. She straightened in her chair. “If the pay is enough, I’ll take it.”
Yaga’s brows knit together. “Iori, this man - ”
“I said I’ll take it,” she interrupted. If she gave herself even a second to think about what kind of man required protection that came with a warning, she might falter. She couldn’t afford faltering.
Yaga leaned forward, elbows resting heavily on his desk. His gaze softened, but his voice stayed hard. “I know why you’re doing this. But money isn’t worth everything. You can’t protect Tsumiki if you’re dead.”
This time she didn’t look away. “I’m not planning on dying,” she said.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain outside drummed steadily against the window, filling the silence. Utahime let herself picture Tsumiki’s face - the smile she rarely saw these days, the determination that reminded Utahime so much of herself.
She couldn’t lose her after everything.
“I’ll set it up,” Yaga said at last, though he sounded like he already regretted his own decision. “But you need to understand that this won’t be like the academy. It won’t be training or drills or teaching green recruits how to keep their balance in a fight. This will be real, and it will test you in ways I can’t prepare you for.”
Utahime exhaled, forcing the tension from her shoulders. “Then I’ll deal with it when it comes.”
Yaga shook his head, muttering something under his breath about her stubbornness. But he didn’t argue further. Instead, he reached for the phone on his desk.
Utahime sat back in her chair, her hands finally still. The rain outside showed no signs of stopping, and neither did she.
She rose from her chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath her, as though it knew she wouldn’t sit here again for some time. She bowed her head slightly to him out of habit, and forced herself to keep her voice steady.
“Thank you, Yaga-sensei.”
His sigh followed her out the door, heavy with words he didn’t speak. She let it trail behind her as she stepped into the hallway. Thanking him was easy. Living with the decision was something else entirely.
The academy was a living, breathing organism of restless energy by the time she arrived. Rain had driven most of the recruits inside, crowding the training halls with the thud of fists against sandbags and the clash of wooden practice swords. Shouts rang out, commands barked by instructors, the occasional laugh from cadets who hadn’t yet learned to bite down on their excitement.
Utahime wove through it all without pausing. She caught the flash of curious eyes as she passed - the recruits always straightened when she was near, not out of fear, but out of the strange reverence she carried. They knew she demanded discipline. They also knew she’d been through more than any of them could imagine.
Not today, she thought, brushing past a group sparring too clumsily. She didn’t have the patience to bark corrections. Her footsteps carried her down the narrow corridor toward the quieter wing of the academy.
The medical ward.
Here, the lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow across white walls and neatly made beds. Most were empty - minor injuries from sparring rarely kept anyone longer than an hour - but one room at the far end held the only reason Utahime had kept going this long.
Tsumiki.
She pushed the door open gently, careful not to let the hinges creak. The room was dimmer than the hallway, curtains drawn against the rain. A monitor hummed softly in the corner, its green line steady but fragile.
Tsumiki lay curled against the sheets, her breathing shallow but even. Dark hair spread messily across the pillow, and her skin looked pale against the sterile white of the bed.
Utahime pulled a chair up to the bedside, lowering herself into it with slow care, as if any sudden movement might disturb the peace in the room. Her hand hovered above the girl’s for a moment before finally settling, her thumb brushing against knuckles that were far too thin.
For a while, she simply listened to Tsumiki breathe, her fingers resting lightly over the girl’s hand. But then, the girl’s lips moved.
“...I’m sorry.”
Utahime blinked. “What?”
Tsumiki’s eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded but shining with something that hurt more than her illness. “For… all this.” Her free hand made a small, fragile gesture toward the IV, the monitor, the white walls that had become too familiar. “For being such a burden. You… you already lost so much. And then you found me and I - ” Her voice cracked, thin as glass. “I just made life harder.”
The words cut Utahime deeper than any blade ever had. She sat frozen for half a breath, the old soldier in her warring with the mother she had become. Then, all at once, she leaned forward, her grip fastening fiercely around Tsumiki’s hand.
“Don’t you ever say that again,” Utahime said fiercely, her voice shaking not from weakness but from sheer force of will. “Not once. Not even in your thoughts.”
Tsumiki flinched at the intensity, but Utahime pressed on, her eyes blazing.
“You didn’t make my life harder. You saved it. After the war, I had nothing left. No reason to keep moving, no reason to wake up the next morning. And then I found you.” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words through anyway. “You gave me a purpose when I had none. You are the only reason I didn’t disappear into all that darkness.”
Tears pooled at the corners of Tsumiki’s eyes, her small frame trembling as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. “But… I’m just…”
“You’re my daughter.” Utahime’s voice softened. She brushed a hand over Tsumiki’s hair, smoothing it back from her damp forehead. “My reason. My angel. Don’t you ever apologize for existing. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
The girl’s tears spilled then, trailing down her pale cheeks. Utahime gathered her carefully into her arms, mindful of the wires and tubes, but unwilling to let her cry alone. Tsumiki clung weakly to her, as though she feared that letting go would make her words true.
The two of them stayed like that, wrapped around each other, as if the world outside didn’t exist. And in that rain-dimmed room, it didn’t. There was only Utahime and Tsumiki.
A few minutes later, Utahime slowly untangled herself from Tsumiki’s weak grip. She shifted carefully so as not to jostle the girl. “Rest now,” she murmured, smoothing the blanket over her shoulders. “I’ll be right here… just breathe.”
Tsumiki’s fingers loosened reluctantly, as if testing whether Utahime would really let go. Utahime gave her a small, reassuring nod before letting herself stand. She stepped back, taking one last look at the girl she’d promised to protect, before turning toward the door.
Outside, the hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic. Shoko was waiting, white coat half-unbuttoned, dark circles smudged beneath her eyes like shadows that had become permanent. She carried a folder tucked under one arm, the edges of the papers frayed from handling.
Utahime didn’t need to ask. She already knew.
Still, Shoko held the folder out. Her fingers hesitated in the air for a second, as if reluctant to hand over something so heavy.
“I’ve run the tests three times,” Shoko said quietly. “Consulted specialists outside the country. Tried different combinations of meds. It’s… it’s not enough.”
Utahime knew what the folder would say. Numbers, charts, medical jargon - all just polite ways of telling her that time was running out.
When Shoko finally spoke again, her voice cracked in a way Utahime had never heard.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve - ”
“No.” Utahime cut her off. “You’ve done everything. More than anyone else ever would. You’re the only reason she’s made it this far.”
Shoko’s lips pressed together.
Utahime softened then, reaching across the narrow space to clasp her wrist. “You’ve been fighting just as hard as I have. Don’t carry guilt that isn’t yours.”
Shoko let out a shaky exhale. “Then what are you going to do? Because the truth is… treatment at this stage is expensive. The kind of expensive that ruins lives.” Her eyes searched Utahime’s, knowingly. “And I know that look on your face. You’re planning something.”
Utahime hesitated.
“Yaga found me a job,” she said tightly.
Shoko stilled. “…What kind of job?”
“The kind that pays enough to buy time,” Utahime answered. “The kind that’s dangerous. But we don’t have another choice.”
Shoko’s frown deepened. “Dangerous how?”
“You don’t need the details. Just know it’s not clean. But I can handle it. I’ve handled worse.”
Shoko shook her head, strands of dark hair falling loose. “Uta… you’ve already given too much of yourself to blood and violence. You promised me - ”
“I promised her more,” Utahime cut in. “I promised her a chance. And if it means stepping back into the dark to give her that, then so be it.”
The silence that followed was thick. Shoko’s hands clenched, the doctor and the sister warring inside her. Finally, she exhaled bitterly.
“You always were stubborn.”
Utahime allowed herself the faintest of smiles. “And you always knew you’d never be able to talk me out of it.”
Shoko leaned back in the chair, rubbing her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “Then promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“That you’ll come back.” Her voice was small. “Don’t make me lose you too.”
Utahime nodded once. “I’ll come back.”
Shoko didn’t look convinced - but she didn’t argue further.
Utahime studied her friend for a long moment, the slump in her shoulders, the exhaustion visible in every line of her face. Shoko had never been good at taking care of herself - always giving her energy to others until she ran dry.
“You need to go lie down,” Utahime said finally, voice firm in that older-sister way that always managed to make Shoko sigh. “And eat something that isn’t vending machine food.”
Shoko’s lips twitched, as if she wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy. “Bossy as ever.”
“And you love me for it,” Utahime said. “I mean it. Rest. No more all-nighters at the lab. You’ve already cut back on smoking for her. Don’t make her wake up and see you falling apart, too.”
Shoko’s eyes flicked toward the wards, and for once, she didn’t have a rebuttal. She only nodded. “Fine. But don’t think that means I’m not going to worry about what you’re walking into.”
Utahime didn’t answer.
The vibration of her phone cut through the quiet. She fished it out, glanced at the screen. Yaga.
She stepped a little away before answering. “Yes.”
His voice came through. “Meet your client at this address. Tonight.”
“Text me the location,” she said simply.
The line went dead.
Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she caught Shoko’s worried gaze on her but offered no explanations. Only the faintest nod, the silent reassurance they’d always shared.
She let out a quiet sigh as she pushed the doors open. The corridors of the academy stretched out ahead. She walked with measured steps, passing the main gates. The city sprawled before her. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease just slightly as she let herself move through the crowds.
The streets grew quieter the further she walked. Utahime kept her pace steady, body moving with the kind of endurance drilled into her bones years ago. The military had stripped her down and rebuilt her into a weapon - footsteps silent, lungs steady, eyes flicking over every shadow. A few kilometers meant nothing.
But as the address Yaga had texted drew closer, a new tension coiled low in her stomach. The district was wrong. It was too secluded and quiet, and yet too polished. A strip of silence carved out from the noise of Tokyo. The kind of place respectable people pretended didn’t exist.
She stopped at the corner of a narrow street, eyes narrowing.
Japanese syndicate territory.
Utahime had never walked these streets as anything more than a soldier or a protector. But now, staring at the gilded gates that loomed in the distance, the sleek foreign cars parked with precision along the curb, the faint gleam of gold leaf on lacquered doors, she felt her gut twist.
This wasn’t some back-alley gang hideout. This was power. The kind of place where a misstep didn’t get you beaten - it got you buried.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and exhaled slowly through her nose.
What had she gotten herself into?
The thought tried to rattle her, but she pushed it down. She didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing.
Her boots clicked softly as she moved again, drawing closer to the entrance. Men in dark suits lingered by the gates, eyes sharp and assessing, every one of them armed though not a weapon was visible. Utahime knew the type. They weren’t boys playing at crime, but soldiers of another war.
One of them shifted as she approached.
She straightened her shoulders and walked on without flinching.
Utahime had faced tanks, mortars, and men who thought her life was worth less than the dirt under their boots. She wouldn’t bow here.
Still, when she entered the compound and the doors opened to reveal a sweep of chandeliers, velvet drapes, and marble floors polished enough to see her reflection, she couldn’t help the bitter laugh that almost rose in her throat.
Utahime took it in with a soldier’s eye, cataloguing exits, calculating odds, knowing already what this grandeur meant.
This wasn’t just any job.
And the man she was about to meet wasn’t just any client.
Utahime stood stiffly in the grand hall. Her silence was enough to make the men lounging nearby glance at her with curiosity before returning to their murmured deals.
And then he arrived.
A tall figure in an immaculate suit, white hair tousled as though styled by mayhem itself, sunglasses perched low despite the late hour. He didn’t walk with caution or deference. He strolled, hands in his pockets, as if every square inch of marble belonged to him already. And the way heads turned to track his movement, the way even the guards shifted subtly at his presence, told Utahime one thing immediately - this man owned the room.
He grinned when he saw her.
“Well, well. Yaga really outdid himself this time.” His voice carried, smooth and infuriatingly amused. “I was expecting another stiff in a suit with no personality. But instead, he sends me a pretty soldier with a permanent scowl.”
Utahime’s jaw flexed, her eyes narrowing before she could stop herself. She hated him instantly. The swagger, the arrogance, the mockery dripping from every word. The kind of man who thought the world was his chessboard, and everyone else mere pawns.
She said nothing.
Gojo sauntered closer, pulling off his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket. His impossibly bright blue eyes swept over her like he was cataloguing every inch, then lingered on her set jaw and squared shoulders.
“Not much of a talker, huh? That’s fine. I like a challenge.” He leaned in just a fraction, voice lowering as though they shared a secret. “By the way… I’m Gojo Satoru. And you are?”
Utahime’s eyes flicked to him, still holding her silence.
“Come on,” he said, grin widening, all teeth and trouble. “Even a soldier has a name. What am I supposed to call you while you’re standing there scowling at me?”
“Utahime,” she said flatly.
“Perfect,” he said, leaning back into the armchair across from her with careless grace, stretching out like a cat in its own sunbeam, utterly unconcerned by the men watching. “Utahime… I like the sound of that.”
She stayed standing.
He tilted his head, studying her. “You don’t like me.”
“Sharp observation,” Utahime muttered.
He laughed - an obnoxious, delighted sound that carried through the room and made her want to grit her teeth. “Oh, I like you already. You’ve got bite. Most people in this business can’t look me in the eye without flinching.”
“You’re not that impressive,” she shot back, before she could stop herself.
A dangerous silence followed - but Gojo only smirked wider, as though her defiance were the sweetest music. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial.
“Good. Don’t be impressed. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To keep me alive.”
Utahime stared at him, heart hard and steady.
Just then, the doors at the far end of the hall opened again.
A tall man in a tailored black suit strode forward, his expression carved from stone. He wore no sunglasses or smirk. His dark hair was impeccably neat, a few strands rebelliously falling over his forehead, softening the severity of his gaze. A strong jawline and high cheekbones gave him an aristocratic sharpness, but his presence was what truly held the room captive.
Where Gojo filled the room with noise, this man silenced it with gravitas. The murmurs of nearby lieutenants died instantly as he approached the table.
“Finally,” Gojo drawled, not bothering to hide his boredom. “I was starting to think you’d let me charm her into submission all by myself, Suguru.”
The man - Suguru, Utahime realized - placed a leather folder carefully on the low table between them. He did not glance at Gojo, but instead turned his attention fully to her, his posture composed and measured.
“Yaga spoke highly of you,” Suguru said evenly. “Former soldier. Experienced. Loyal. I trust his recommendation, but I understand that trust must be earned.”
Utahime met his gaze steadily. There was no condescension in it - just clear-eyed assessment, the kind one expected from a professional whose life depended on precision.
He opened the folder, revealing a contract printed in meticulous black ink, stamped with seals she recognized from the underworld - a mark that carried authority beyond any court.
“These are the terms,” Suguru continued. “You will serve as Gojo Satoru’s personal bodyguard twenty-four hours a day, until the pact is formally concluded.”
Utahime’s brow furrowed. “Concluded?”
“Either by his directive or his death,” he replied calmly, without inflection, as if stating a simple fact rather than a threat.
She remained silent.
“You will execute all orders necessary for his protection. All actions must be carried out with discretion and full loyalty. Any breach - whether in disobedience, disclosure, or abandonment of duty - will be treated with the utmost seriousness. The consequences are commensurate with the severity of the violation.” His gaze held hers steadily. “I mention this only to ensure clarity. Your consent must be informed.”
Gojo leaned back, grinning slightly. “Straight to the point, huh?”
She ignored him, her focus fixed on the contract.
Suguru gestured lightly toward the signature line. “Please sign if you accept. There is no negotiation, as these terms are designed to safeguard both you and him.”
Utahime hesitated only briefly, the memory of a pale girl in a hospital bed flashing in her mind. Tsumiki’s whispered apologies reminded her why she could not step away.
With a steady hand, she picked up the pen and signed her name, the ink marking a commitment she would honor.
The silence of the hall seemed to seal around her as the ink dried.
Suguru closed the folder with finality, his expression unchanged. “Then it is done.”
Utahime straightened. Whatever she had just bound herself to, it was too late now. The path was set.
Gojo leaned back with a delighted little hum, his grin stretching wider as though she’d just agreed to play a game only he knew the rules of.
“Well then,” he said, insufferably pleased. “Welcome to the family, Utahime.”
Utahime’s glare could’ve set the chandeliers aflame.