The evening sky had that elastic blue that still promises a little light. Seen from afar, the sunset that day offered a mystical feeling, somewhere between a painting and spirituality. Aiko went down the subway stairs with the brisk step of someone who doesn't want to keep anyone waiting, a light bag on her shoulder and a determined look. That afternoon she'd texted the group—"Arcade near the station → customary purikura → gyoza on the corner. Dress code: cute but comfy."—and now she was dressed exactly like that: a slightly low-cut black T-shirt, soft and comfortable, with the sleeves pushed up a little to her elbows; light jeans; clean black sneakers; a thin windbreaker tied around her waist for when the air would bite with cold. Her very long blond hair fell down her back, swaying slightly with each step.
The train pulled in, kicking up dust along with a breath of air warmer than outside. Inside, the neon lights (some flickering) lit the carriage, casting glossy reflections on the doors; to her left, a little boy was quietly counting the stops, his mother tilting her head from side to side, amused; a couple laughed at something they'd seen on their phone. Aiko caught her reflection in the window opposite: blue eyes, clear and wide, that tonight had decided not to be swallowed by any thought; hair perfectly neat and slightly wavy at the ends. When the doors opened at the station, the climb back up was a blur of colorful, glowing signs, the smell of roasted chestnuts and frying oil, and beside her different footsteps taking the same steps.
The arcade's green neon was flickering, lighting up the asphalt too and underneath it, straight as an exclamation point but with his head bowed over his phone, stood Yuji—belt bag at his waist, a clean green hoodie, that slightly unruly tuft of hair that never stayed where he put it. He stood with the restrained energy of someone who wants to hug but remembers the rules of civility. As soon as he saw her, he looked up and his face flushed red. "Hey."
"Hey," said Aiko, and she moved close enough to give him a little kiss on the upper lip—strictly on tiptoe—brief, precise, their way of saying "I'm here." He flushed all at once (that immediate sincerity of his) and, as a defense, took her hand. He didn't let it go.
"Nobara is five minutes late because she has to be 'cute but comfy,'" he reported, dead serious. "Megumi has been on time for three minutes, but he's pretending he just arrived," he said, smiling.
"Balance of the cosmos," Aiko replied, squeezing his fingers.
They arrived together: Nobara in a short cream-colored coat, low ankle boots and sunglasses perched on her head that she wore like a crown ("they're not needed but they suit me"); Megumi in a dark hoodie and a technical jacket, hands in his pockets, his sidelong gaze softening for an instant when it met Aiko's.
"Dress code respected," Nobara decreed, photographing them with her eyes. "Now get in, plebeians."
Inside, the arcade was an aquarium of lights: a blend of red, blue, and violet; digital chimes, victory jingles and the dull drum of rhythm games. The place was crowded that evening. The air smelled of snuffed-out cigarettes, new plastic, sweat, fried food and buttery potato chips. An attendant handed Yuji a fistful of tokens in a little cup; he thanked him and passed it to Aiko as if it were a bouquet of flowers.
They started with air hockey. Nobara raised her arm as if inaugurating a sports season, winking and pretending to greet her fans. Megumi inserted the coin without changing his expression, just a slight nod. The puck shot off and within two seconds it was already two–nil for Nobara; Megumi tilted his wrist, calibrated his strength and clawed back point by point with zen calm. "If you don't take a photo when I win, I'll erase your existence from my socials," she warned him, seriously amused. "Got it, Itadori?"
Yuji pretended to tremble. "I only document the truth."
"Then document this," Nobara retorted, scoring the final goal. She celebrated in a measured way (for her): two tiny hops and a wide grin.
They moved on to the claw machines. Aiko pointed at a pink octopus with ridiculously big eyes:
"Noooo! I want it!" she exclaimed, squeezing Yuji's fingers.
He darted forward, fed in a token and studied the claw with the focused air of someone about to save the world; he missed the first try by two millimeters. "Okay… I'm studying the wind in here," he murmured, tense.
"There's no wind, love," Aiko giggled. "But there is gravity."
Second attempt: the octopus lifted, wobbled, dropped.
Third: it grabbed, rose, and slipped again at the last second.
On the fourth, with Megumi giving technical advice about timing and Nobara piling on psychological pressure ("if you fail, our relationship will end before it even begins"), Yuji pulled it off: the claw carried the octopus to the chute with a triumphant burst of jingles. He pulled it out and placed it in Aiko's arms with a theatrical bow. "For the most beautiful waitress in the world."
"Thank you! I accept it," she said, smiling, and the kiss this time was a little longer.
The purikura was at the back of the hall, a white booth full of little stars and instructions shouting cute phrases. The voice was strictly female.
"I'm directing," Nobara announced, pushing them inside. In the booth there was a blinding light—the kind that forgives everything. Four heads in a row, then in pairs, then all pulling a mean face. At one point Aiko slipped the pink octopus between her and Yuji; Megumi raised two fingers in a tiny "V" as if declaring peace. During the decoration phase, Nobara hammered the hearts and glitter buttons like there was no tomorrow.
"Holy cow, maybe the button's broken!" she exclaimed, dead serious.
Aiko wrote in small letters in the corner: Sunday squad; Yuji added an improbable doodle of a gyoza with legs. When the photo strips came out warm, they smelled of paper and fresh ink.
"One for me," said Aiko, "one for the kitchen. One—"
"For the dorm fridge," Yuji finished, already blushing at the thought.
"I'm hungry," said Megumi, slipping between them.
"Yeah, me too. Let's go, the gyoza await us!" Aiko exclaimed, amused.
The gyoza spot was a block away—thankfully: a simple, fogged-up storefront window, ten metal stools that were oddly comfortable, steam rising like a simple prayer. They sat in a row, shoulder to shoulder. After a moment, a cook with a gentle scar on his face emerged from the kitchen and set down before them plates that were steaming and wonderfully fragrant: gyoza crisp on one side, soft on the other; soy sauce, black vinegar, chili oil. Aiko mixed all three in a little bowl, found the perfect shade, dipped the first one, and offered it to Yuji with her chopsticks. "Quality test."
Yuji blew on it, tasted it, closed his eyes for half a second. "Ten. Eleven."
"Ten and a half," Megumi corrected, fair.
"Twelve if you take a cute photo of me right now," bargained Nobara, and she set the gyoza on the plate as if it were a jewel.
That evening, they talked about everything and nothing: about the arcade attendant who looked exactly like a retired pop singer; about how Aiko kept the tokens in her inner pocket like a strategist and how they clinked every time she moved; about Nobara's photographic mission (a wall of perfectly aligned purikura); about the new playlist to try in the kitchen when there were no customers. Every so often, without making a big deal of it, Yuji would take her hand under the counter and squeeze her index finger—the way you do to say "I'm here". Aiko let him and when she looked at him, he blushed and laughed at the same time, lowering his gaze, amused.
When they were done—tired but amused—they stepped outside to find the sky a deeper blue and the streetlights looking livelier, gentler. It had just begun to drizzle, and as they passed the arcade's storefront, they noticed how it mirrored itself in the puddles. The scene had a certain artistic flair.
"Round two next week," Nobara decreed, adjusting her little coat. "I want a rematch at air hockey."
"Accepted," said Megumi, with a curve of his mouth that, for him, was almost a smile.
"I'll train the claw in the meantime," Yuji promised, dead serious.
"You train your heart," Aiko replied softly, just for him. "I like it that way."
They said goodbye at the corner by the arcade. Nobara took Megumi's arm and dragged him off with her usual noisy grace.
"Who knows how they'd be, if they got together…" Aiko exclaimed, smiling.
Yuji paused a moment to look at her under the green neon, the pink octopus poking out of her bag like an accomplice. "I think they'd be great. She gives the orders, he follows," Yuji replied, taking her hand again.
Yuji read the thought on her face, and his smile wavered. "How long?" he asked softly.
"Not long," Aiko answered, with the calm that came to her naturally when it was needed. "Seven minutes."
He nodded, tightening his grip on her hand just slightly. He looked at the street, then back at her.
"Will you come to the dorm with me?" he asked, shy and firm at once. "It's simpler… and if it happens—I mean if—" he didn't say the name, there was no need "—shows up, we'll be safe. We won't wake your folks."
Aiko paused for a moment under a streetlamp, the light making her hair shine like golden silk. She could feel the mark under her skin like a familiar spark—not painful, just present. She looked up at Yuji: kind eyes, that gentle anxiety that didn't seek heroics, only to be useful to her.
"Alright," she said. "Let's go."
Yuji smiled with a relief that warmed his cheeks. "Then let's take the subway—it'll be quicker." He opened the way to the stairs as if they were the gates of an old palace; she brushed his arm in a silent thank you.
They went down. The train arrived with its metallic breath; they sat close, knee to knee. Aiko watched the tunnel's darkness stream past the window and mentally replayed the evening's map as one might review a recipe: arcade, laughter, photos, gyoza… and now this stretch of road narrowing toward 11:15 p.m. The seal stayed warm and quiet at her lower abdomen, a reminder under her skin.
"When we're upstairs," she said, without emphasis, "we do as always: you on the couch, me in the kitchen. Clear distance."
"Yes," Yuji said. "And… if something happens, we'll talk to Gojo-sensei."
Aiko smiled sideways, with that tough sweetness that was all her own. "Perfect."
They got off at their stop. The night air carried the clean taste of the iron from the great gate and the leaves wet with rain. They crossed the dorm courtyard; the windows lit here and there looked like distracted eyes. In the hallway, their footsteps echoed faintly. In front of Yuji's door, Aiko checked the time again: 11:13.
They exchanged a glance—brief but complete. "We're on time," she said.
"We're together," he added, opening the door.
They stepped inside. And the night, from outside, stayed to watch.
***
SUKUNA'S POV.
I will speak.
I hear her before I see her: my mark throbs under her skin, low, at the groin, like a word made of flesh. "Until midnight," I had told her. Every time she breathes, my seal breathes with her. It turns me on.
If only I could take her from behind like that night at the cinema…
"So?" she asks, no frills. "Did you see how I kept the seal quiet today?"
"Good," I smile, wicked. "You already know how to use silence."
I try half a step. Too much. The leash jerks my shoulder back: a sharp crack. I laugh softly — good rope, when you know who is holding it. "Talk, girl. You have got ten minutes. Waste them well."
She looks at me, still. "I'm asking you without the bell." A short pause. "What's the cruelest thing you would do to me… without touching me?"
AH. Finally a question that suits me.
"Easy," I say, and my voice drops. "I'd make you choose. I'd take the bell from you until you stop wanting it. I'd make you say 'my king' when there is no pact, just because you want to. I'd give you one truth and then another until it feels like you are drowning every time I do not speak. I'd put hunger in your eyes and leave you alive. Always alive."
She does not look down. She does not break. Ah, brat… those eyes, I will ruin them for you.
"Good," she says only.
"Now it is my turn," I hiss, sweet as a clean knife. "The favor: you will confess an indecent thought you had about me. One that is true and you will not lie."
Her lips hesitate for a beat. I see her throat rise, fall. I want her in that precise moment.
"Brat?!" I prod her gently. "Now."
She breathes. She holds my gaze, and speaks.
"I absolutely don't entertain indecent thoughts about you. It's never happened."
My smile opens on its own, toothless. It fires me up more than blood.
"Kukuku..." it slips out. "Okay, you will have 24 hours to think about it."
I take another half step; the bond is sawing into my collarbone. It does not matter: I just need to see her standing upright with that secret finally on me. "Keep it warm until midnight," I remind her, low. "My seal. Your image. And tomorrow... we'll see how much you will miss it."
***
The morning had a postcard-clear blue, with a crisp air that smelled of a new day and of promises not yet spent. They left the dorm together: Yuji with his backpack slung over one shoulder, still half-asleep but wearing that smile he never lost and Aiko beside him, adjusting her light jacket and the high knot of her ponytail.
They walked slowly along the inner avenue, where the cherry trees were already bare but still left faded pink carpets on the ground. Every so often their hands brushed, as if it were a gesture both natural and secret.
"Did you sleep?" she asked, giving him a sidelong glance.
"Enough. Even though last night Gojo decided the right time to shout down the hallway was past midnight." He made a theatrical grimace, then laughed softly.
Aiko shook her head, suppressing a smile. "He'll never change."
They stopped at the street corner, right where the subway lines split from the shuttles to the institute. The noise there was different: bicycles, students' voices, the smell of coffee drifting from the nearby café.
Yuji turned to her, wearing that simple, straightforward expression that could suddenly be disarming. "Have a good class., my love"
"Good training," she replied, and at that moment she smoothed out a crooked fold of his hoodie with her fingers, as if it were a natural gesture, already a habit.
They looked at each other a second longer than necessary. Then Aiko took the direction of the subway, leaving him to his line. As the train sped beneath the city, her reflection came back to her in the window: hair tied in a high ponytail, two strands deliberately left loose to frame her face.
Once she got to class, she sat down in her usual spot, and her phone vibrated under her desk.
Yuji: I'm in the front row and I don't understand anything. It's your fault.
Aiko: About my bad influence and my kisses?
Yuji: …Yes.
Aiko: Concentrate. Or I'll question you later.
Yuji: Question me now. I still wonder how you…
He stopped. Three dots.
Yuji: …to kiss me and make me forget where I am.
Aiko nibbled the corner of her smile. The neon lights outlined her fingers, thin as pens.
Aiko: Yesterday I liked it when you looked at me before the chorus. That exact second.
Yuji: Which one?
Aiko: The one where you decided to come towards me.
Yuji: The one where you grabbed me.
Aiko: Also.
A pause. The teacher changed slides, the class moved. The phone vibrated again.
Yuji: Can I tell you something a little…?
Aiko: You can.
Yuji: Last night I dreamed of you on top and me from below following your movements. And you liked it in the dream too…
Aiko: So it wasn't a dream, it was a premonition. 😍
Yuji: Aiko…
Aiko: Now focus, love. We'll continue later. Promise. ❤️
She placed the phone face down. Aiko flipped it over, letting her thumb brush the edge. Twenty-four hours, she reminded herself. That was the time she had to pay the favor: an indecent thought, real, about Sukuna. She had promised and if she didn't do it by today, he would be the one to take something in return. She didn't like the idea of giving him that margin. She preferred to choose how and when herself.