The first thing Toji felt was pain.
A sharp, splitting pain drilled into the back of his skull, pulsing with every beat of his heart. His vision blurred, and for a moment he wondered if this was the afterlife—if such a thing even existed for someone like him.
The last memory he could grab hold of was clear: Satoru Gojo. That infuriating grin. The crushing defeat. Then nothing. Darkness.
Now, his eyes fluttered open to dim light. The cold stench of rot and iron clung to the air. He staggered to his feet, pressing a hand against the rough brick wall to steady himself.
The headache flared. Images that weren't his own assaulted him—fleeting, broken shards of someone else's life. A laughing child's voice. A woman's face he didn't recognize. Strange streets. A world that didn't belong to him.
He clenched his teeth until the pain subsided, forcing the images down into whatever pit they came from.
When his vision cleared, he realized where he was.
A narrow alley, cloaked in shadow. And around him—bodies. Half a dozen of them, sprawled in unnatural angles. Their faces were unrecognizable, as though blurred and scrubbed away, like the world itself had erased their identities.
Toji's gaze dropped to his hands. His knuckles were raw, crimson dripping down from fresh cuts.
He exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite the situation.
"…Guess I've been busy."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the drip of blood hitting the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, neon light flickered, humming like a dying insect.
Toji Fushiguro was alive. Where—or what—this place was, he didn't know. But one thing was certain.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Toji crouched down, the leather of his jacket creaking as he examined the nearest corpse.
The body was still warm. Blood pooled beneath it, soaking into the cracked pavement, its smell sharp in the night air. His eyes slid over the man's attire—a dark, padded vest with multiple pouches strapped tight across the torso, the kind soldiers or mercenaries might wear. But it wasn't standard gear. The design was almost ceremonial, stitched with odd patterns along the edges.
More curious, though, was the metal plate tied around the man's forehead. A headband—sturdy cloth, with a polished plate fixed in the center. An emblem was engraved into the metal, though the deep gash across it made the design hard to make out.
Toji tilted his head, unimpressed.
"Seriously?" he muttered. "Who the hell dresses like this?"
It looked halfway between cosplay and military uniform, a parody of both. The others wore the same—headbands with scratched symbols, vests bristling with pouches, shin guards.
The mercenary in him couldn't decide if he should laugh or scoff.
Some kind of local militia? A gang with bad fashion sense?
He straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets with a bored expression.
"Military, huh? Looks more like a kid's costume party."
For a moment, silence reigned. Then a faint rustle carried down the alley, from deeper in the shadows. Toji's eyes narrowed, predatory instincts kicking in. Whatever this place was, he wasn't alone—and he doubted the locals were going to welcome a stranger covered in blood.
Toji let his gaze sweep over the bodies one last time. Something glinted faintly near one of the outstretched hands. He stepped over with lazy strides and crouched, prying a small blade from the corpse's stiffening grip.
A kunai. Short, triangular, balanced. He flipped it once in his palm, testing the weight. It wasn't one of his cursed tools, but steel was still steel—and steel could kill.
Scattered across the blood-slick ground, he found more. Three, four… enough to keep in reserve. He wiped each on the dead men's vests before tucking them away. No sense in dirtying his fists if these toys could do the job.
"Better than nothing," he muttered, slipping one between his fingers like it belonged there.
Straightening, Toji stretched his shoulders with a roll, then turned toward the mouth of the alley. Neon light flickered beyond, painting the street in faint reds and blues. The night air outside carried different scents—smoke, food, the press of human life. Wherever he'd landed, it wasn't the world he remembered.
With a last glance at the faceless bodies sprawled in the dark, he stepped out, kunai in hand, his expression unreadable.
The night air hit him as he stepped out of the alley, cool and laced with the faint tang of smoke. The streets stretched out before him—narrow, winding, almost old-fashioned. Wooden storefronts lined the roads, paper lanterns swaying gently in the breeze, their light flickering like dying fireflies.
It was late. Too late for most people. Only a few stragglers shuffled about, their steps hurried, their eyes downcast. Most of the shops were shuttered tight, doors barred, windows dark. Only a handful of places glowed faintly, stubbornly open against the night.
Toji shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled aimlessly, the kunai tucked away. He wasn't in a rush. He never was.
That's when he caught it.
A scent. Strong, savory, rich. Broth simmering. Pork fat, soy, garlic. Ramen.
His stomach tightened. How long had it been since he'd eaten? The thought made him pause, tilting his head slightly toward the smell. He could almost picture the steaming bowl, chopsticks clattering against ceramic.
For a second, he considered it. A quick meal wouldn't hurt. But then reality set in—his pockets were as empty as his wallet. Dead broke.
A dry chuckle slipped from his lips. "Figures."
Still, his feet moved on their own, following the trail like a hunting dog. Not because he cared about eating—he could endure hunger—but because curiosity tugged at him. If there was food, there were people. And people meant information.
He followed the scent through the empty street, not a care in the world, like a man who had all the time in it.