Gojo-sensei let his gaze linger on the black box for a moment, then turned back to Yuji. Everyone knew he rarely stopped smiling, but in that calm there was a seriousness that left no room for interpretation.
"Listen carefully, Itadori," he said in a low voice, enunciating each word. "Sukuna doesn't always show up. There are precise windows. The three that really matter are these: seven fifteen in the morning, three fifteen in the afternoon, eleven fifteen at night."
He paused, letting the silence settle over the corridor; then he put an arm around Yuji's shoulders and added, in a firmer tone: "You must not forget them. Ever. Because if you do... you won't get a second chance."
Yuji stared at him wide-eyed, swallowing for a moment. The cheerfulness returned briefly to the sensei's face as he brushed past him and gave him a playful tap on the head. "Oh, now shower and then breakfast. At 3:15 p.m. the next window. Kugisaki's bringing pancakes—better be there."
Yuji ran a hand behind his neck, smiling. His legs were steady, his heart was still pounding, but his head felt lighter right then. Before heading to his room, he glanced for a moment at the window open onto the courtyard. A new unease stirred within him, as if something were about to happen at any second. Then, all of a sudden, a voice. Subtle, elusive, deep.
"Every eight hours I open the threshold. Count your minutes carefully, brat."
Yuji took a deep breath. "Then we'll count together," he said, as if making a promise to someone unseen. Then he slipped his phone into his pocket with the good idea of texting Aiko every time the window opened, both before and after. Letting the light in through the gap—on their terms.
And if needed, with pancakes.
***
That same afternoon, the ticking of the giant clock in the main hall filled the silence of the institute's corridor. On the cold marble landing, Hana Kurimoto was bent over a pile of handouts, searching for a book on ancient curses. Her light laughter mingled with that of her friends and with the rustle of turning pages; the red ribbon she always wore in her hair swayed gracefully from side to side each time she moved.
When at a certain point he—"Yuji"—crossed the threshold, he greeted her with a carefree yet cold nod: it was the kind of gesture shy people usually made, but with her he had to be careful. Yet something was off; his steps didn't feel like his own. Usually Yuji walked with one hand in his jeans pocket and his back slightly hunched, but that day his stride was like a groove carved into the floor . Sukuna moved straight, with firm ankles and rigid shoulders, and each time his foot touched the ground it was as if he were placing a period in the grammar of power.
He stepped close, just a hand's breadth from Hana. Sukuna's face was just two centimeters from her mouth. He was excellent at hiding the black markings on his face, so he looked exactly like Yuji. No one would have noticed the difference. She opened her mouth to let out her usual playful remark, but nothing came. She looked into his eyes and blushed slightly. Instead of Yuji's gentle gaze, Hana saw two ebony pearls: they looked like dark, polished coins, devoid of tremor or shame.
Sukuna tilted his head slightly, as if tasting the air with the refinement of an expert palate, and whispered softly with a click of his tongue:
"You know, certain desires rot if they stay in your pocket too long."
He called her 'wildflower,' but instead of sounding sweet, the name carried the opposite weight. In Sukuna's mouth it folded in on itself like a silent blade, turning instantly into something that hurt. He didn't touch her; the contract forbade him and he knew well that breaking it would cause him sudden, sharp pain, like a bite. All at once the air grew heavy, as if something cold and oppressive had spread across the floor. Hana swallowed, the taste of iron flooding her mouth.
Sukuna turned, lingering just long enough for her to glimpse his sharp smile—the promise that he could have stayed, had he chosen to. Then he lifted his gaze upward, along the corridor of skylights: backlit, on the railing of the upper floor, he saw Gojo's marble-like figure dominating the scene, shoulders to the sun, one hand in his pocket and his blindfold pulled high like a banner. He gave him a faint smile, the classic sign to the watchful hunter.
"Watching the dog, huh?", Sukuna thought with a heavy sigh. He looked exhausted. With a single, smooth movement of his heel—without a hint of sharpness—he slid toward the side exit.
The ticking of the clock finally reclaimed its reign over the silence within the corridor. Hana stood frozen, eyes wide, her handouts pressed against her chest, her heart beating in an inexplicable countertime: how could such a small distance, barely a hand's breadth of air, already feel like something menacing and oppressive?
The road out of the institute stretched before him, lined with gravel carpets and stone paths, streaks of wet grass and scattered puddles. Every pebble beneath his feet felt like a tiny clock marking his steps. Sukuna let Yuji's body surrender to the rhythm of the run: his feet touched the ground with an almost feline lightness, his breath stretched into long arches of air while his muscles vibrated with a primal pleasure, welcomed by the burn of oxygen seeping into them.
Just beyond the gate, the peaceful calm of the institute vanished in an instant. The city hit him with a chaotic jumble of sounds: cicadas chirping without pause, a metal cart clattering over broken cobblestones, and the earthy scent of large soba pots, mixed with the summer humidity, filling his lungs. Every detail reached Sukuna with sharp clarity: the rustle of leaves under a car door, the echo of distant voices, the living breath of the city.
He stopped in the shade of an old vending machine, its paint peeling like tree bark, the nozzle breathing out a puff of warm dust. Across the street, the restaurant's shutter was half-raised: inside, Aiko's mother was polishing dishes, her flowered apron swaying with each movement; her father was busy with the ice bin, foam bubbling over his skilled hands.
One hundred... one hundred and fifty meters, Sukuna calculated, feeling the pact tighten around his ribcage like a dog's collar: do not cross. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the steady sound of the knife hitting the cutting board become his inner metronome—each strike a tick marking Aiko's discipline.
So that's where her sense of measure comes from: blood in a straight line, he thought, observing the scene with the cold detachment of a scholar taking notes.
He pulled out a white ofuda—the paper still bright, the ink ready to inscribe the darkest threat. Just a single kanji, one cruel word, was enough to plant a seed of resentment that would rot silently beneath the surface.
He let it fall into the manhole, without writing, now cleared of stagnant water; only a faint splash followed.
— five minutes —
An idea teased at his lips. He pulled out Yuji's phone with a measured gesture and typed:
Yuji — 3:20 PM: Love, I'm here outside the restaurant.
He smiled, that thin, icy smile of his. Let's see how fast someone runs when they think they're running toward peace.
Aiko Steps Outside.
A minute later, the side door of the restaurant opened. Aiko stepped out in a light white jacket, her loose hair flying messily before falling in a glossy wave down her back. She spotted the red hoodie, thought it was Yuji and her face lit up like a lantern from within.
She ran—light steps, feet making no sound—and without slowing down, she leapt onto him: arms around his neck, knees bending, the scent of shampoo and good broth flooding his nose.
"You're here!" she said, laughing against his cheek, once, twice, three times. Then she began to cover him with kisses: on his temple, along his cheekbone, at the corner of his mouth. "You told me to meet at eleven! You rascal!"
Sukuna stood still with his arms raised. The promise—I won't use his body to touch her—kept his hands restrained, stopping him from moving them, but with a softness that felt more like affection than restraint. He neither held her nor pushed her away. He simply let her warmth fall over him like rain.
He felt her heartbeat against his chest; he felt his own too, slower, alien. The vessel throbs. The girl sets the air on fire, without even knowing it.
He swallowed the irony and savored the moment.
— thirty seconds —
Aiko pulled back just slightly, still out of breath. "What is it? Why do you look like stone?"
Sukuna lowered his gaze; Yuji's pupils were now two bottomless wells, with no trace of redness.
Below them, his mouth curved into a half-smile.
"You know," he said in a voice too low, "some caresses are grace only as long as they remain unaware."
A chill ran down her spine. Aiko drew her face back by a hand's breadth, studying those eyes: they didn't waver, they didn't flee. "Yuji?" she whispered.
The ink line appeared on his sternum all of a sudden. In a breath.
"Not now."
Sukuna's breathing grew slow, controlled. In that span of time, Yuji's face changed: the veins on his neck stood out, the skin around his eyes darkened and the black lines like veins of ink spread in sharp strokes across his sternum, his temples and his jaw. His gaze turned into a wicked flash.
Aiko saw him stop, and she also saw the shadows on his face turn into a spectral pattern. Yet not a trace of fear clouded her blue eyes: she stayed still, her head light and thoughtless, her loose hair framing her face and her gaze fixed on him. She took a step forward and stopped, as if to see more clearly.
Sukuna looked at her in silence, imperious and without hesitation. She didn't take a step back, nor forward. She simply stood there in front of him, like a beacon of calm against that silent fury.
Then, without another word, the black line receded, the redness returned to Yuji's ears, and the window closed.
Silence.
Aiko, still standing a hand's breadth from the shutter, gave him a faint smile. He breathed, let out a sigh, and found himself wanting to run—not toward escape, but toward that peace he knew so well. When the tick of the timer went silent, it was as if an inner thread had suddenly snapped.
Yuji's body wavered in a sudden tremor: his shoulders hunched and his chest let out a deep sob. For an instant he stood still, as if suspended between two worlds, unable to move. Then, with a gasp, he began to breathe again: Sukuna's breath withdrew, and Yuji's muscles recoiled in a single, tormented leap backward.
His eyes, recently filled with black, turned brown again; on his sternum, the dark ink line slipped away beneath his skin, leaving behind a faint, almost imperceptible itch. The world around him seemed to come back to life all at once, and Yuji welcomed it by looking around. He recognized the distant buzz of a neon light, the rustle of wind against the windows and the quickened beat of his own heart.
He wavered, taking an unsteady step forward before his balance gave way: his knees felt weak and his head spun as if he were drunk. Aiko saw him falter, his feet betraying his weight, and in an instant she was beside him: one firm arm around his waist, the other supporting his shoulder.
She gently pushed him against the nearest wall, his warm back leaning into its support. With her fingers she brushed his sweat-damp forehead and searched his eyes for the boy she knew—the shy one who blushed at her side.
Yuji closed his eyes for a moment, took a long breath, then parted his lips with a hoarse voice:
"Aiko... sorry. I feel... confused. It's like my life was torn away from me for a moment."
She hugged him firmly, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. "Breathe, you're yourself again. I'm here."
Inside him, a cold whisper:
"We'll meet again. Count your minutes well, brat."
Yuji flinched, his muscles tightening in a shiver, but Aiko caught nothing of that voice. She held him closer, warm and steady, supporting him through the shock.
"It's okay," she went on, handing him a bottle of water. "Drink it."
He gripped the slim neck, tilted his head and drank in small sips until he felt the water run down his throat, cool and clear. Then, with his hands still trembling, he grasped Aiko's wrist. "Thank you for always being here," he murmured, his voice just a little stronger.
She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, her gaze gentle but firm. "We're a team, remember? Every time it happens, you call me. And you'll send me the messages both before and after, just like we agreed."
Yuji nodded, a hesitant but generous smile lighting up his eyes. "I promise."
They pulled apart just slightly, just enough to settle themselves: Yuji straightened with effort, ran a hand over his dry lip, then smoothed back his messy hair and adjusted the hoodie on his shoulders. Aiko brushed a strand from his face, a gesture as affectionate as a caress.
"Ready to get back to the day?" she asked, with that smile that knew every corner of his heart.
Yuji took a deep breath, reached out to rest his hands on her waist and answered softly: "Yeah. With you by my side, I can face any countdown."
She brushed his temple with a light kiss. "Then let's go."
Outside, the world went on as usual. For an instant, Yuji felt that all the boiling noise was his regained normality—a normality that, even with a small clock ticking in his chest, was worth running toward the nearby restaurant for, hand in hand with Aiko.