The neon lights quivered, just slightly, as if someone had spoken too loudly a moment earlier. Yuji walked with clammy palms, his sweatshirt drawn tight around his shoulders for shelter, hood pulled up. Every so often his chest and stomach gave him that ugly hollow feeling—the same one that had stolen his breath in the movie theater bathroom.
Gojo was leaning against the windowsill, his blindfold pushed up like a headband and his eyes clear. In his hand he held a fan of ofuda marked with brushstrokes; on the dōjō floor, meanwhile, the pattern of seals glowed with a faint blue, as if all of them were waiting for his return.
"Welcome back Itadori-kun," he said without turning around. "Was the comedy at the multiplex fun?"
Yuji stopped. "Y–you knew?"
Gojo lowered the fan of ofuda, his expression serious. "I don't need popcorn to notice when a vow is triggered. The matrix flashed like a beacon. Boundary three broken. What did I tell you? You should have been careful."
Yuji ran a hand over his face. "It was just a moment. I... I was there and then suddenly I wasn't. Something yanked me outward though, like a push. I can't quite describe it but... in the end I left the room. Things played out differently and I... I didn't think about it. It's my fault."
Gojo nodded once, folding his arms. "The recoil tear pulled you back. That's how it works: the moment the boundary—"you won't use his body to touch her"—was broken, the window shut on its own and you returned. Good." He let the ofuda slip between his fingers. "And now the interest comes due."
Yuji lifted his gaze, pale face. "How... strong they are?"
Gojo jerked his chin toward the pattern on the floor. "For forty-eight hours the windows shorten. Ten minutes become six." His gaze slid over him, not sharp, but watchful. "On top of that, I've already set a trace: every opening leaves a trail that only I can see. You're not the one being punished, Itadori. He's the one being put on a leash."
Yuji swallowed. "And Aiko?"
"She doesn't carry anything," Gojo said flatly. "But there's a proximity collar: if he tries to get close to her for undeclared purposes, he'll feel a sharp burn beneath his sternum and be expelled in an instant." He gave the ofuda a slight shake, as if to snuff out a spark. "This is to make sure the game doesn't repeat itself."
Megumi appeared in the reflection of the glass, notebook in hand. He raised a hand in greeting. "You did the right thing by leaving," Gojo said softly, without judgment. "When you're not sure about something, you have to stop."
Yuji nodded, his voice low. "Yeah... I stopped."
Gojo stepped away from the windowsill. He slipped a folded ofuda into Yuji's breast pocket.
"This isn't a mark to punish you, nor a burden of guilt," he said. "It's a reminder, a sign to help you remember. Normality doesn't guarantee itself—it has to be protected through strict rules, restrictions that sometimes hurt or tighten. Now, take a shower, drink some water, and..." his smile returned faintly, "...something funny to tell your friends: today I watched a movie about a radioactive sandwich. Tomorrow we'll think about the rest."
Yuji drew a deep breath. The hollow in his chest eased, just a little. "Thank you, sensei."
"You're welcome." Gojo raised two fingers as if in class. "And remember: if your heart tells you "it's afraid", it deserves to be heard before anyone else."
Yuji lowered his head. He turned toward the dōjō exit with a new, hard feeling—that there was a net beneath his feet: unpleasant, yes—but his.
***
SUKUNA'S POV.
Her warmth... is not mine.
Not yet.
But for those stolen minutes, every breath, every twitch of her muscle, every shiver of her skin... was under my dominion.
The brat's body is a vessel I know as well as my own hands: I know where it gives, where it quivers, when it collapses. But today it wasn't just flesh to use.
Today, there was her. And that means the fun... has only just begun.
It is almost comical to see how his body obeys without knowing who governs it. The brat would give her trembling caresses, eyes like a dog starved for approval. I, on the other hand, do not ask. I take what is mine. And she follows. Without hesitation. Without suspicion.
The way she moves her hips... it is not just pleasure. It is control. It is a show of strength carved into her flesh.
And that is what makes the game worthy of me.
I have never tolerated women who tremble with fear; they are boring, fragile, useless. I prefer those who dare to challenge me even when they think they are safe.
And she does, with a naturalness that deserves to be... broken. I feel her tightening, searching for a rhythm, thinking she can impose it. And I let her believe it... for now.
The brat will never understand how many truths can be read in a body. I do.
And that is why her body does not truly belong to him.
I see everything: the tension that precedes the moan, the breath held an instant before breaking, the stubborn will not to lower her gaze even when pleasure buckles her knees.
And then it hits me—a vile thought: why should that brat have this fire all to himself?
But at the very best moment, they tore me away like a fishbone: bloodless, but with every fiber screaming as it snaps.
For a fleeting moment: warmth, breath, rhythm. Her hands—not mine, but mine enough—and that insolent refusal to tremble. Then the bite: a sharp pull beneath the sternum, everything caught in invisible claws.
The room lost its edges. The vessel resurfaced, docile, like a corpse floating to the surface.
"Good", I thought, when I tasted the pain all the way through. "At least you sorcerers remember to bite."
Your vow is not poetry. It is an elegant whip. You have cut my time down to six minutes, etched every step I take in invisible ink. And now you fasten a collar around my neck: when I draw near to her—the maid—the burn coils through me like a thin blade.
It does not touch her. It does not hurt her.
It bites me.
And you think that will be enough to keep me in check. Pathetic.
Amazing! You make me laugh.
The vessel chokes, but it does not break. Well made. I hear his heart apologizing to the void—a pathetic reflex, an insect's habit. I do not apologize to anything. I measure.
The girl... has not seen. And yet, even without my mark on his face, something brushed against her intuition. Her hands do not lie: they know how to hold on and let go in the same gesture. In my time, that was called character.
It's rare. And it interests me.
The collar pinches again. A sign that I am thinking of her too closely. I smile—with teeth you cannot see—and draw back just a little. I am in no hurry. Every eight hours your clock grants me a breach. I count in a way you will never understand.
When the time comes, I will test the knots of your net one by one. If they snap, good. If they hold, even better: I will know the substance of the door that shields you—and what name to give it.
For now, let the brat offer flowers of apology and rules with smooth edges. Let him believe that goodness is enough.
I wait it. I watch it. And I sink my teeth where the skin is thickest.
And when it burns, I laugh. Because pain—unlike love—never lies.
***
YUJI'S POV.
(When I come back, it is never a clean return. It's like stepping into a room where someone has moved the chairs two centimeters: everything seems in its place, yet you stumble all the same. In the movie theater bathroom I felt the body freeze. A void, then a jolt of current in the chest. The breath that was no longer mine. But his.
I understood in an instant, and that instant lasted too long. I said "wait" with the voice of someone breaking the surface. My hands found her wrists and lowered them gently, like setting down a glass so it won't fall. Aiko looked at me. She still wore her smile. And I felt that smile break against me.
"He was here" I said. The words came out rough, like scratches of sand. "Here. Now." I couldn't explain better. I don't know if I could have. I don't know if I should have. I only know I saw her gaze turn serious, steady, the way it always does when it matters. She took my face in her hands and told me I was back, that it was enough. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to stay. Instead I felt fear. Not the kind that makes you run from a monster—I know that one! This was worse: the fear that I was the monster, without meaning to be.
I said "I can't." I pulled up my hoodie, searched for air—any type of air. I opened the door and found myself in the hallway with the flickering neon and the smell of detergent. I leaned my head against the cold wall and counted. I don't know what. Seconds? Heartbeats? The windows I had left until midnight.
I walked out of the theater and wandered without direction for a while. The traffic lights blinked red-green as always. People talked, laughed. The world knew nothing and kept on turning. My throat was tight and my head was full of words that served no purpose.
I washed my hands in a station bathroom as if I could scrub off something invisible. I watched the water run. My fingers were trembling. I thought of hers: how they tug at my hoodie when she fixes my collar, how they tap the rhythm when the music in the kitchen starts softly. I thought about how little it takes to ruin something clean.
I pulled out my phone, opened the chat. I typed: Sorry.
I erased it.
I typed: I can't.
I erased it.
I typed: I'm scared.
I erased that too. In the end, I didn't write anything.
I took a random train and got off two stops later just to walk back. Walking helps me. The body understands before the head does. But this time every step seemed to say you were wrong and at the same time you couldn't have done anything else. That's what hurts the most.
Every eight hours, ten minutes. We called it a window, as if it were something you open to let the air change. But when the window opens while I'm with her, it isn't air that comes in. It's him. And I don't know if being good and fast is enough to shut it. Not when Aiko is involved. Not when her name is a place where I feel safe.
I thought of Gojo-sensei, of Megumi, of the rules written clearly on the page. No contact with her. Windows only in public. No harm. I went over them one by one, like a mantra. And yet my heart kept pounding as if I were running, even though I was standing still at a crosswalk watching a dog pull at its leash.
I wish I were simpler than this. I wish I could tell her, "I'll come back, we'll talk," and then really come back. I wish I could sit at the restaurant counter, see her father chopping scallions and her mother laughing at something I don't understand, and feel that home is safe. I wish my body were only mine when I'm with her. And if I can't promise that, then what do I promise?
I got back to the dorm late. Nobara texted me, "where are you, idiot," but I didn't reply. I lay down on the futon without taking off my shoes. I stared at the ceiling for too long. Every so often I closed my eyes and saw her face again when I said, "he was here". There was no fear. There was only me. That's what breaks me: she believes me even when I wouldn't believe myself.
At the first alarm I counted: 7:15, 3:15, 11:15. Every eight hours. I set the reminders. I typed window and left it in drafts, ready to send her. Then I turned off the screen. I didn't want to drag her into the noise. Silence is something I barely know, but today it felt like the only right path. If I stay away from her, I do it to protect her. If I stay away from her, I also do it to protect myself from what I might become beside her. These two truths throw punches at each other, and I stand in the middle.
I miss her silly messages: "shy boy", the photo of a dish that turned out well, a "timid" typed without malice. I even miss the way she fixes my hair when I disappear into my own head.
I let myself drop to the ground, fists clenched against my knees. My breath came out broken—it wasn't exhaustion... it was anger. Anger at myself.
How could I? I knew. I knew the windows, I knew I could never let my guard down. Gojo-sensei had repeated it to me. I had promised myself. And yet... I lowered my guard.
I run a hand through my hair, pulling hard, as if I could hurt myself enough to erase what just happened. It wasn't just a rule. It was a promise. And I broke it. I let Sukuna take control. I let it happen right in front of her.
I lower my head, feeling my shoulders tremble. "Aiko..." I whisper softly, voiceless. "I was supposed to protect you. A... and instead I was the first to betray you. Because I forgot the one thing I could never forget."
But the next time I touch her, I want to be sure it's only me. Not the me+someone else that's always clinging to us.
I get up. I go running. I count my breaths. Every eight hours, my chest tightens like a bow and then releases. Damn windows. I don't write to her. Not yet. Maybe it's a mistake. Probably it is. But right now, I can't do anything else.
If they asked me what I want, I'd say: an ordinary evening. The half-empty subway, her cold fingers finding mine, the dumb movie that makes us laugh so hard we forget everything else. I'd say: the crowded restaurant, the clatter of dishes, the broth simmering, and me walking in, blushing, her looking at me as if I'd come back from war even when I've only come back from the supermarket. I'd say: the chance to tell her the truth without ruining it.
The call vibrates in my flesh when the window opens. I breathe. I hold on. I think of her name as a knot that will not come undone. And as the tenth minute closes and my gaze becomes mine again, I make myself this promise: it won't be silence that ends our story. It's only a pause. Too long a pause, I know. But I have to reach the place from which I can tell her, "I'm coming back," without pretending.
When it happens, the first thing I'll do will be to knock on the back door of the restaurant with my wrinkled hoodie and red ears. And if she opens—even just a little—I'll know I'm still the boy she chose. Even with all the chairs moved around inside. Even with the room that never quite resets.
I'll know I can start putting them back in place. One by one. With her.)