Yuji walked to the window. The rain had stopped. Through the streaked glass, he could see a sliver of the Tokyo skyline, the neon signs flickering back to life. People were walking below. Normal people. Going to convenience stores, arguing on phones, living their small, fragile, beautiful lives.
Inside, the air was stale. The small kitchen table was still set for two. A half-empty cup of tea had grown a fuzzy kingdom of mold. The TV was off, but a thin layer of dust covered everything like a silent scream.
“It’s a mess,” Yuji whispered.
Yuji spun around. A figure leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Dark hair, tired eyes, a patch over one eye. Satoru Gojo.
Gojo stopped. He turned, and for the first time, Yuji saw the exhaustion behind the smile. It was the same exhaustion Yuji felt in his own bones. Home RESULT FOR- JUJUTSU
No answer.
He was still a weapon. Still a vessel. Still a boy condemned to die. Yuji walked to the window
“You’re supposed to knock, brat. You live here.”