Chapter Text
”I hate this already.”
Ieiri Shoko kicked at the snow lining the mountain path, breath spilling out in a long, white cloud.
“Why am I here?” she muttered. Then louder: “Suguru, tell me—why am I here?”
A few paces ahead, Geto Suguru slowed just enough to glance back over his shoulder. His expression was wry in that maddeningly calm way of his.
“Because we were assigned?”
She narrowed her eyes accusingly. “You don’t want to be here either.”
He tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to,” Shoko groaned, stomping a little too hard through the snow.
He hummed noncommitantly.
She ground her teeth, breath hissing. “What I mean is—why am I hiking through a frozen mountain on a Friday night instead of passed out in a heated room with takeout?”
He frowned, violet eyes flicking toward the spot where his best friend should have been—only to find empty air and trampled snow.
“You know why.”
She did. Unfortunately.
The assignment was a cursed residue cleanup in the countryside. Nothing unusual about that—except the location. Some remote patch of forest that had only just been flagged for residual activity. Fresh readings, unclear source. Low threat level.
In other words: grunt work.
Yet, somehow, here she was—a second-year, a doctor-in-training, a woman with far better things to do—trudging through knee-deep snow and freezing her ass off.
This was the kind of thing usually lumped on first-years. The kind of thing meant to be lumped on first-years.
And it would have been… if Gojo hadn’t been, well, Gojo Satoru.
It had started as an innocent prank. Just a little chaos to mess with the first-years—nothing dangerous, nothing permanent.
But nothing involving Satoru ever stayed innocent for long. It didn’t just end. It escalated.
Quickly.
In hindsight, things probably started spiraling the moment the white-haired menace decided to involve cursed tools—specifically the ones locked behind three seals and a reinforced storeroom door they were very explicitly not supposed to touch.
What followed was a blur of screaming students (well—Haibara), possessed tea sets, and a broom that wouldn’t stop crying.
The cleanup took hours.
The paperwork, days.
Oh, and Yaga’s blood pressure? Permanently elevated.
Which was how she ended up here—trudging through a cursed forest crawling with grade fours.
Satoru called it “character development.” Shoko preferred the term manual labor.
Her eye twitched. “I hate him.”
As if summoned by her spite, a sneeze echoed up the trail—loud, dramatic, unmistakably Gojo.
Suguru hummed, faintly amused. “You say that, but he does seem to live rent-free in your head.”
“Yeah,” she muttered darkly, “like the black mold in the communal bathrooms.”
Because as much as everyone liked to pretend it was harmless, they all knew it was slowly killing them.
The words had barely left her mouth when a sharp crack broke through the trees to her right.
She froze mid-step.
Suguru paused just ahead of her, eyes scanning the tree line. The wind had stilled. No more crunch of boots on snow. No rustling leaves. Just—
Snap.
Closer now. Something brittle giving way—like a stick. Or a bone.
Shoko’s hand drifted toward the charm tucked in her sleeve.
“Suguru,” she muttered tightly. “What was that?”
He didn’t answer. His body shifted subtly, weight centered, eyes sharper now.
He’d felt something from the moment they entered the forest—the cursed energy clinging to the trees like fog. Thick. Spotted. The telltale signature of low-grade residue.
But this… this wasn’t residue.
Another branch creaked somewhere above.
“Okay,” Shoko whispered, “I really, really hate it here.”
And then—
Something launched from the trees.
She caught the blur out of the corner of her eye, her body already moving, one foot sliding back, arms braced to—
Splat.
A snowball burst against the side of her face. Cold powder cascaded down her hood and collar.
She stumbled back with a strangled noise, hands clawing at the snow now melting down her neck.
Suguru blinked, expression caught between alarm and resignation—right before another snowball sailed out of the trees and thunked squarely into his chest.
He looked down at the wet patch spreading across his coat, then exhaled slowly, ”…I was wondering where you ran off to.”
A voice rang out from the trees, far too loud for the stillness of the forest.
“Direct hit!”
And then a figure dropped out of the branches above them, landing in the snow with a crunch that sent up a flurry of white powder.
Shoko ripped the snow from her eyes just in time to see Gojo Satoru straightening with a satisfied grin, already forming another snowball between his gloved hands.
“I’m going to kill you,” she hissed.
“Unlikely,” Satoru replied cheerfully. “But points for enthusiasm.”
Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. “Satoru, please tell this isn’t why you practically volunteered for this mission.”
Satoru frowned, wounded. “You think I would abuse my authority just to start a snowball fight?”
“Yes,” Shoko and Suguru said flatly, in perfect unison.
Satoru’s grin widened like it was the highest praise.
Shoko scoffed, “You’re insane. Actually insane—“
“I think you mean ‘resourceful,’” he replied, flicking his wrist to toss the snowball up and down.
“You know I thought you were a curse? I almost exorcised you!”
“Aw, Shoko,“ he drawled, “don’t make me laugh.”
“I am freezing, Satoru.”
“She was already muttering about homicide,” Suguru offered mildly.
“And?” Satoru chirped, pointing at him with the snowball. “That’s just how she shows affection.”
Shoko bent down wordlessly, scooping up a tight, compacted ball of snow. Satoru noticed immediately—but made no move to stop her. If anything, he looked delighted.
“Oho,” he said, grinning, “are we bonding?”
“Eat it,” she growled, and hurled the snowball straight at his face.
It should’ve hit him square between the eyes.
Instead, it stopped midair—an inch from his nose—hovering like it had slammed into an invisible wall.
Satoru didn’t flinch.
The snowball hung there, trembling faintly… then crumbled. Bit by bit, it disintegrated, drifting to the ground in soft white flakes.
He tilted his head, smug and infuriating.
“Violence,” he said serenely, “isn’t the answer.”
Her eye twitched so hard she saw stars.
Behind them, Suguru coughed into his sleeve—absolutely not hiding a laugh.
Shoko didn’t dignify either of them with a response. She just spun on her heel and stormed back up the path, boots crackling furiously against the ice. Snow kicked up with every stomp, her coat flaring, puffed hood bouncing like even it was done with Satoru’s nonsense.
Satoru watched her go, still holding the half-formed snowball in one hand.
“…Think she’s mad?”
Suguru gave him a sidelong look. “Take a guess.”
Satoru tipped his head, considering. “So… a little mad.”
“A lot mad.”
“Mad enough to poison my tea?”
“Mad enough to use you for anatomy practice.”
“Sounds fun.” Satoru winced theatrically, then waved it off. “She’ll get over it though.”
“She doesn’t strike me as the forgiving type.”
“…You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. This is me on your side.”
Satoru blinked at him. Then grinned. “Aw. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
A beat.
“…You wanna hold hands to make it official?”
Suguru sighed, already regretting engaging at all. He didn’t answer, turning his gaze toward the fading line of boot prints where Shoko has disappeared off to.
“She’s walking too far ahead,” he said finally.
Satoru shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s fine.”
“You didn’t see anything up there?”
Satoru shook his head. “Nah. Just a couple of low-grades. She’s got it. Honestly, she looked like she needed something to hit.”
Suguru gave him a flat look. “You mean you?”
“She can certainly try,” Satoru said, tossing the snowball from one hand to the other with a smirk—then flippantly slung an arm around Suguru’s shoulders like they were heading to lunch instead of deeper into cursed territory.
Suguru sighed. “That prank really wasn’t worth this, by the way.”
Satoru’s grin widened. “But you laughed.”
“I laughed because Yu screamed so high he shattered glass.”
“A legendary moment,” Satoru said smugly. “He might actually have a cursed technique we didn’t know about.”
Suguru huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “Right. There are the windows of Jujutsu Society… and then there are the window breakers.”
“Every school needs balance.” Satoru smiled, more than a little pleased with himself.
Suguru shook his head, but amusement lingered at the corner of his mouth.
They trudged on, following the trail Shoko had carved in her irritation. Her footsteps bent around a slope, vanishing into a thicket of snow-dusted underbrush.
Satoru slowed. His brows furrowed.
“Huh.”
Suguru glanced over. “What?”
“…I don’t see her anymore,” Satoru murmured, tilting his head. “Like, at all.”
Suguru stilled. “You mean with—?”
“Yeah.” Satoru’s voice dipped a fraction.
A pause.
“Guess there is something up ahead,” he added lightly, almost sing-song.
Suguru frowned, eyeing the forest. “I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly,” Satoru replied, tapping at his temple as he took the lead.
The trees leaned closer here, shadows stitching tighter between them, and the air felt just a little too still—like the forest itself had been put on hold.
Satoru stepped forward and stopped. His hand lifted, hovering out in front of him. He brushed against something.
Not bark. Not snow.
Just—space.
The air there rippled faintly under his touch.
He pushed a little harder, then pulled back, lips curving into a grin.“Huh,” he said. “Field trip just got fun.”
Suguru’s eyes narrowed. “A barrier?”
“A door.” Gojo stretched his arms overhead in a dramatic flex. “And you know me. I love knocking.”
And before Suguru could answer, Satoru stepped through.
The air changed at once.
Moonlight winked out, swallowed by a dark dome that stretched overhead like a second sky. Shadows pooled low across the snow. The temperature dipped—not a biting cold, but enough to prickle the skin.
The forest looked the same.
But it wasn’t.
Not quite.
Satoru’s brows lifted as his vision adjusted. And there she was.
Shoko.
Just ahead now, deep in the forest, probably unaware that anything had shifted.
“Oh,” he hummed, satisfied. “She’s fine.”
Suguru stepped in beside him. “More than fine by the looks of it.”
The trail widened into a small clearing, snow churned and uneven, cursed residue still clinging to the air.
Satoru let out a low whistle, boots sinking into melted patches and torn-up ground. “Well, she got her wish after all.” He crouched beside a blackened smear of curse ash, brushing his fingertips through the snow. “Hit something.”
Suguru came to stand over him, gaze cool but curious. “Three somethings.”
Satoru’s grin spread. “Classic Shoko.”
Suguru’s eyes crinkled. “Therapeutic, probably.”
They turned to go—then both paused.
A rustle.
Not loud. Just a whisper through brush. A twig’s crack. Snow shifting.
Suguru angled toward it, head tilted. “She leave something behind?”
Satoru frowned, senses already reaching. “Nah. Nothing. No cursed energy.”
Another rustle.
Intrigued, Satoru nudged aside a low drift of branches.
He blinked.
Nestled in a hollow under the trees sat a fox—small, still, white as driven snow. Its fur seemed to hold light where the moon didn’t, catching the soft glow from the charm Suguru had just unwrapped—a paper talisman on a thin wooden rod, humming faintly with cursed energy.
Its ears twitched. It didn’t bolt.
It stared back at Satoru.
Clear, bright cerulean eyes met his—unblinking. Watchful. Almost… curious.
Satoru squatted down. “You don’t usually see them this far up in winter.”
Suguru leaned over his shoulder, glaning at Satoru suspiciously. “Didn’t peg you for a wildlife enthusiast.”
”I contain multitudes, Suguru. Infinite technique. Flawless hair. Repressed trauma. National Geographic-level intellect. Stay jealous.”
“You’re insufferable,” Suguru muttered, stepping around him like Satoru’s ego had mass.
The fox didn’t flinch. Quiet, composed, tail wrapped neatly around its paws.
“I think you’ve got competition,” Suguru said dryly, angling the charm so its light skimmed the fox’s face.
Satoru glanced up. “Huh?”
“Blue eyes. White hair.” A beat. “Your twin.”
Satoru gasped, delighted. “He’s beautiful.”
The fox twitched its ears in what might have been offense.
Naturally, Satoru reached out—because of course he would—hand extended in open, playful curiosity.
The fox perked up.
Then, to both their surprise, it stepped forward—quick, eager, sniffing the air, nose hovering just shy of Satoru’s fingers.
“See? He totally likes me—”
It froze, stopping short just centimeters from his hand. Ears cut to one side. Muscles tightened under fur.
In a blink, it wheeled and vanished—a slip of white threading the trees like a breath exhaled too fast to catch.
Satoru let his hand fall with a disappointed sigh.
Suguru raised a brow at him. “You tried to pet a wild animal,” he said, already turning back to the path.
“I had to try,” Gojo defended, brushing his hands off. “He looked friendly.”
”He looked ready to bite.”
”He’s shy.”
“Probably smelled your socks, Satoru. I’ve told you.”
“Nuh-uh. That was your cursed spirit funk bouncing off me.”
“I don’t have cursed-spirit funk,” Suguru grumbled, briefly sniffing his coat.
Hands in his pockets, Satoru stood and walked ahead. “If I had a snack, he would’ve stayed.”
“You’re not supposed to feed wild animals.”
“Says who?”
“Says literally every ranger manual ever.”
Satoru scoffed. “Come one. It’s basic Minecraft logic. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. Feed them, tame them, boom—new best friend.”
Suguru gave him a look. “That’s a video game.”
“I don’t know, I think I was pretty close. He totally vibed with me.”
“He ran away.”
“Yeah. Because he was stunned by my visuals.”
Suguru exhaled. “Do you ever get tired of being your own biggest fan?”
Satoru beamed. “Someone’s gotta cheer me on.”
They kept walking, Satoru dragging his feet just a little—until his head lifted, chin tilting slightly upward. His smile faded as his gaze narrowed ahead, pupils tightening behind the tinted lenses.
Suguru stopped too, turning his head. “What’s wrong?”
Satoru blinked, head tilted the way it always did when he was sensing something the rest of them couldn’t.
“I’m looking at her cursed energy,” he said slowly. “…She’s not alone.”
Suguru’s expression shifted.
And just like that, they were moving—snow kicking up as they broke into a run, trailing toward where Shoko had vanished ahead into the trees.
𖦹⭒°｡⋆⪩. .⪨⋆｡°⭒𖦹
“Unbelievable,” Shoko grumbled under her breath. “One snowball and he acts like he’s untouchable. Which, fine, technically he is, but still—”
Her flashlight jittered as she threw up an indignant hand, scattering light across the trail. She jammed the other into her pocket, fingers closing around the cool scalpel nestled inside. Its weight grounded her.
She needed to hit something.
And it obviously wasn’t going to be Gojo—no matter how hard she tried.
So she put distance between them, letting the other two lag behind.
The cursed energy in the area was thin and scattered, like the forest had been recently cleared out, but a few grade fours still pricked at the edge of her senses.
Easy targets.
The sooner she cleared them, the sooner this punishment run would be over—and she’d be back at Jujutsu Tech, kotatsu humming, blanket over her legs.
Shoko pushed up the path. Trees pressed in as the slope steepened; the air went colder, stiller. Snow webbed over roots and old stone markers.
There—movement at the edge of her vision.
Not animal. Not natural.
That greasy shimmer of cursed energy.
Three of them—low-grade, sluggish things. One crab-crawled on too-long arms, head cocked unnaturally to one side. The others sloughed out from between trunks, forms warping and reforming as if they couldn’t decide on a shape.
They saw her and hissed.
Shoko didn’t even slow.
She pulled her cursed scalpel from her jacket in a clean motion, the familiar glint of its edge instantly sharpening her focus.
The first lunged with a wet screech. She stepped past it, blade flashing once—its arm hit the snow a heartbeat before the rest.
“Grade fours,” she muttered. “Glorified cockroaches.”
The second came from the side, sloppier, mouth opening far too wide as it groaned. She ducked under the swipe of its claws, drove her scalpel up into its gut, and twisted. It howled. Steam hissed from the open wound as it evaporated into nothing.
The last tried to run.
She didn’t let it.
A flick of her wrist sent the cursed scalpel whistling through the air. It took the thing at the base of the skull before it dropped without a sound, dissolving to smoke that clung like ash.
Shoko walked through it, crouched, and fished the hilt out of the snow. She turned the blade once, wiped the residue off, and slid it back into her coat.
Somewhere behind her, laughter and a sigh carried through the trees—Satoru and Suguru, of course.
“Manual labor,” she muttered. “Character development, my ass.”
The clearing had settled, emptied of shrieking, slithering annoyances. Just wind, snow, and the thrum of cursed residue fading into the trees.
But something still buzzed beneath her skin.
A pull.
She straightened, eyes narrowing at the treeline.
“…Weird,” she breathed.
The sensation wasn’t loud or obvious, not like the sloppy noise of grade fours—it was quieter, older, rooted. Her fingers twitched toward the scalpel in her sleeve again.
Pressure gathered in her chest. Her senses prickled—something tugging gently, persistently, like thread winding tight around her ribs.
Her boots slowed on the slope. She looked left. Then right.
Snow crunched behind her.
She spun, flashlight up. The beam carved through falling flakes, jittering over trunks and drifts.
Nothing. Just empty woods.
A long sigh escaped her, long and irritated. “Satoru,” she called over her shoulder, “I swear to god—”
She paused, going stiff.
She realized she couldn’t hear them anymore.
Not Satoru’s laughter. Not Suguru’s slow-footed calm. No footsteps. No voices.
Just cold air and silence pressing in from all sides.
Had she really gone that far ahead?
Or—
Her flashlight flickered: once, quick as a blink. Then again, longer. The beam stuttered like a dying battery, though she was sure she’d swapped it before the mission.
And the light wasn’t the only thing wrong.
Moonlight had thinned to a dull smear on a sky that was too black. The snowfall that, moments ago, drifted in steady flurries had stopped midair—hung in her beam like ash—and then winked out.
Her stomach tightened.
When—when had she stepped through a veil?
She stepped back, slow, breath fogging. Her hand hovered near her coat—closer to her weapon now.
A whisper of motion.
Too fast to track.
Every hair on her neck rose. She threw herself sideways as a dark blur sliced the space where her head had been.
The sudden motion knocked the flashlight from her grip. It tumbled into the snow with a soft clatter, beam spinning wildly. Then—
Flicker.
A flash of light illuminated a tall, motionless figure ahead.
She froze.
Another flicker. The light steadied, skewed—casting warped shadows as the figure began to turn.
Tall. Too tall. Vaguely human, stretched wrong. Tattered priest’s robes whispered as it moved; threadbare sleeves dragging the snow. A cracked, elongated noh mask hid its face, the carved smile weathered to bone. Pale, matted strands hung down its back like grave moss.
It drifted as if an inch off the ground—limbs moving too smoothly, weightless and slow.
But its cursed energy was anything but that.
It rolled off the thing in heavy waves—not violent, not frenzied, but thick with intent.
Killing intent.
Shoko’s breath caught in her throat.
“Well,” she muttered, voice dry. “shit.”
The spirit moved.
One moment it stood still. The next: in her face.
She barely raised her blade in time. Metal rang off something hard and unseen. The force of the blow sent her skidding backward, boots carving twin tracks into the snow. Her shoulder jarred hard against a tree trunk.
She hissed, recovering her stance, blade up. The thing hadn’t even made a sound.Just… pressure.
It glided in again, sleeves skimming the snow.
She lunged low, aiming for what passed as a leg. Her scalpel cut clean through the fabric—but not the body beneath. \
Her eyes widened.
Illusion?
No. It had mass—she’d felt the blow.
But it wasn’t… solid. Or at least, it wasn’t staying that way.
It raised an arm.
Shoko didn’t wait to see what it was going to do. She moved—
—but not fast enough.
Something slammed into her side—blunt and cold and wrong—and she went down hard, the air driven from her lungs as snow exploded around her. The scalpel spun from her hand and disappeared in the drift.
Air wouldn’t come. She forced a gasp, elbow shaking as she pushed up.
The curse loomed overhead, mask tilted downward, frozen in that twisted smile.
She couldn’t read its face.
She didn’t need to.
She braced for the blow.
”Shoko!”
The voice rang through the trees—urgent and familiar.
A flash of white streaked across her vision.
She let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, head dropping forward in relief. “About damn time—”
She looked up, expecting a blur of white hair and a cocky grin behind a pair of tinted lenses.
Instead—
Something small, fast, and low to the ground.
It had darted between her and the spirit—fur bristling, blue eyes blazing, low growl humming from its throat—and slammed into the curse’s reaching arm.
A sickening crack echoed through the clearing as the thing sank its teeth into the limb, vicious and unrelenting. The cursed spirit reeled back, a hiss tearing through the air as the thing held on, jaw locked tight.
And Shoko could only stare.
Because—seriously?
Was that a fox?
A familiar rush of cursed energy swept in behind her, and Satoru skidded to a stop beside her, boots kicking sniw.
His gaze checked her first—quick, clinical—then flicked to the white blur mauling the curse like its favorite chew toy. His brow shot up.
“…Huh,” he said, casual as anything. “That was supposed to be my dramatic entrance.”
Satoru arrived a breath later, less dramatic but no less urgent. He dropped into the snow beside her. “You good?”
Shoko nodded once—too tight. “Fine.” Her hand on his sleeve said otherwise.
He steadied her, eyes tracking the masked thing at the edge of the clearing.
The cursed monk staggered, sleeve hanging uselessly as the fox tore free, a strip of corrupted flesh clenched between its teeth. The masked face snapped toward the animal, its permanent grin carved into the wood suddenly strained. Its energy spiked, jagged and no longer silent.
Threatened.
The fox bared its teeth.
And the spirit—hesitated.
Its hand twitched as if to strike again.
But didn’t.
For the first time since it appeared, it took a step back.
Shoko, still breathless, found her voice—low, dry, and hoarse.
“Am I hallucinating,” she said, “or is that a fox fighting a cursed spirit?”
“Technically—dominating,” Satoru corrected, hands on hips.
“And we’re not interfering why…?”
“Because it’s winning. And isn’t attacking us,” Suguru said, eyes tracking the mask’s every twitch.
“Exactly.” Satoru made an approving little hum. “Which I respect.”
The fox arched its back, muscles coiling as it let out a sharp, echoing yip at the cursed spirit.
“…That’s not just a fox,” Suguru murmured, disbelief slipping into his voice.
“Ya think?” Satoru grinned. “And unless my eyes are lying to me—”
The fox’s fur lifted in slow ripples, like wind in tall grass—then, without warning, a burst of energy flared outward from its body like a shockwave.
The air cracked.
The veil trembled.
And behind the fox—
They appeared.
Nine.
Nine long, ethereal tails unraveled from its body like rising flames—twisting, gleaming orange-gold and red at the edges. They moved with a slow, otherworldly grace.
The shift was instant.
Shoko staggered, breath catching like it had been knocked out of her lungs. Her knees buckled.
The cursed energy pressing down wasn’t like anything she’d felt before. It felt… inescapable. Beside her, Geto also went still. Tense. His hand hovered near his sleeve, but he didn’t draw.
Couldn’t even if he wanted to.
The air had thickened, warped. Even the trees seemed to lean back, like even they understood something old had just woken up.
And Satoru—
Satoru tilted his head, perfectly at ease. Entertained even.
“…It’s—” Suguru began, voice taut with recognition.
“A cursed spirit,” Satoru finished, lazily gesturing toward the tails.
Shoko didn’t respond. She was still trying to breathe.
“A cursed spirit,” Suguru muttered, softer this time. “Fighting another cursed spirit…”
Shoko worked air back into her lungs. “A cursed spirit fighting a cursed spirit,” she echoed. “That’s not a thing.”
“Not unless it’s bound or controlled,” Suguru offered quietly.
“Or petty,” Satoru added, shrugging. “Maybe it just hates that other curse more than it hates us. Happens all the time in toxic relationships.”
The masked monk flinched.
Hairline cracks spidered across the carved grin. Its energy spiked—steady to panicked in a breath. Confidence bled out of it as it took a step back, then another.
It recognized the power in front of it.
And it wanted nothing to do with it.
The fox’s jaw parted, muzzle tilting skyward.
A low, unnatural hum rippled through the clearing as a small black sphere spun to life at its lips. The air bent toward it, as if light itself were being pulled in.
The monk turned to flee.
The fox moved first, firing.
The shot went near-silent, a compressed, devestating bolt that struck the chest and bloomed into dark light.
When the light thinned, nothing remained.
The fox stood where the monk had been, breath misting, nine tails fanned behind it like rays of a rising sun—still, but coiled with quiet, radiant power.
Then, perfectly unbothered, it sat promptly on its haunches and began licking its paw.
Satoru tipped his head, watching. “…That’s new.”
The fox blinked. One ear flicked.
Then it turned its head and cerulean eyes met theirs.
Bright. Curious. Unafraid.
It studied them in silence, nine tails flickering behind it, the glow along their edges dimming now, but not fading.
Satoru lifted a casual half-wave. “Hey, sunshine.”
The fox paused just long enough to stare through him—another slow blink—then went back to grooming, now licking its shoulder like they were background noise.
Shoko glanced between them, then back to the fox. “…Are we supposed to do something?”
Suguru frowned. “I don’t know.”
Satoru crossed his arms. “Well, I didn’t bring any offerings. Did you?”
Then, decisively, he stepped forward.
Suguru blinked. “Wait, what are you doing?”
“Making a friend.”
“Don’t—”
But Gojo was already crouching beside the fox like he was approaching a skittish kitten. “C’mere, kitty.”
The fox looked up, ears perking at his approach.
It stood with a little bounce, shook the snow from its fur, and trotted over like it’d just remembered there’d been an audience. Its steps were light, cheerful, expression bright with something eager.
At the last second it stopped just out of reach, sniffed, then bumped its head into his knee and rubbed along
Gojo grinned, delighted. “Look at that. Instant loyalty.” He opened his arms wide.
A half-second wiggle—then it sprang up, landing in his chest like a loaf. Its head tucked under his chin; nine tails slid around his arms in loose loops, one hooking his wrist like a leash.
Satoru laughed, startled. “Okay—okay. Hi.”
A cool nose booped his jaw A second later, a warm tongue swiped across his cheek.
“Gah—hey!” he sputtered, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “Personal space!”
Wide-eyed, the fox lifted a paw and batted at the rim of his sunglasses.
He caught the paw gently, grinning. “Cheeky.”
Satoru let out a satisfied hum, cuddling it close like a plush toy. Then he lifted the fox to eye level—nose to nose, forehead to forehead—examining it with exaggerated seriousness.
Its nine tails swished behind it, curling through the cold air.
Blue eyes met blue eyes.
Strands of white fur and hair tangled between them. Where one began and the other ended was hard to tell.
Satoru frowned, mock-serious.
“…Well, you’re just too cute to exorcise.”
The fox sneezed.
Its nine tails poofed indignantly.
”Hey, what if—“
A resigned sigh echoed behind him.
”Satoru,” Shoko deadpanned. “Don’t even think about it.”
He glanced over, expression all innocence. “What? He likes me.”
The fox gave a tiny chirrup, as if agreeing.
Shoko stared. “You’re can’t.”
Suguru sighed. “You’re not planning to—”
“Too late!” Satoru cooed, spinning the fox gently in his arms. It blinked, dazed but content. “He’s mine now~”
“You can’t just collect cursed spirits,” Suguru said, not for the first time in his life.
“Why not? You do,” Satoru shot back, shifting the fox protectively in his arms like Suguru might snatch it away. “He’s clearly special. You saw what he did.” Then, with complete sincerity, “Besides—look at him. He’s perfect.”
Shoko leveled him a flat stare. “That is a literal cursed spirit.”
Satoru pouted. “Come on. He saved your life.”
“Yes. And now you’re cuddling him like a throw pillow.”
“He earned it,” Satoru said cheerfully, stroking behind the fox’s ears. “Heroic behavior deserves heroic snuggles.”
“You didn’t even let me process what happened before deciding to adopt it.”
“I’m sorry, do you not want the cute murder fox who body-slammed a cursed priest for you?”
The fox blinked up at her, tail curling like a question mark.
Shoko narrowed her eyes, faltering just a little under its wide cerulean gaze. “…Don’t look at me like that.”
Its ears perked.
She frowned harder, like that might protect her. “I mean it.”
Ear flick. Small, smug prrt.
Shoko exhaled sharply through her nose. “This is emotional manipulation.”
“You’re cracking,” Satoru stage-whispered.
“Shoko, don’t encourage him,” Suguru sighed. Then, to Satoru, flat: “You can’t keep it.”
“I wasn’t asking for permission,” Gojo said brightly. “I’m just letting you know—if we’re hiking back down this mountain, he’s coming with.”
Suguru squinted. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Satoru bounced the fox slightly in his arms. “Harmless. Adorable. Alarmingly fluffy.”
Shoko rubbed her temple. “…Do whatever you want.”
“I was going to~”
But in his arms, the fox had gone completely still.
Tense.
Its ears twitched sharply. Muscles coiled. And its eyes—alarmed now—were fixed not on them, but somewhere distant. Down the slope. Past the trees.
Toward the edge of the barrier.
A beat.
It squirmed violently, slipping from Satoru’s grip with a twist of its body. It landed light in the snow, tails flaring behind it like startled banners.
Its fur bristled. It looked back once—eyes sharp, wary, unsure—
Then bolted.
Straight into the trees. Away from the clearing. Away from them.
“Wait—hey!” Satoru’s grin vanished. “What—!”
He took one step forward.
Then vanished too, a blur of cursed energy and cold wind in his place.
The clearing fell silent.
Shoko crossed her arms. “…Should we be concerned?”
Suguru didn’t blink. Still staring after them.
“Maybe.”
“You gonna stop him?”
“…Nah.”
𖦹⭒°｡⋆⪩. .⪨⋆｡°⭒𖦹
Satoru found the fox in the husk of an old shrine—curled tight beneath the cracked arch at its center.
For a second he thought it was asleep.
It wasn’t. The breathing wasn’t easy. Nine tails were folded in like shields, ears pinned; the posture read calm, but the eyes were open. Watching.
Not afraid.
Braced.
He stopped at the threshold, one hand deep in his coat pocket. The air here felt denser, faintly charged—a quiet hum, like something old holding its breath.
Then he saw it. Not with the usual view, but with the eyes that read seams in the world.
A thin film stretched through the arch of the shrine—almost invisible. Not a wall exactly. More like a shimmer where the world bent wrong.
A barrier.
It wrapped the temple ruins and the surrounding forest like a dome of shadow pretending to be sky.
He looked down.
Nine charms, old and half-buried, ringed the fox in a wide circle.
He brushed a gloved finger over one seal. It pushed his cursed energy back—not violent, just final. Built not to hurt.
Built to bind.
He stepped back and mapped it in a glance: the torii framing the inner altar, nine fractured pedestals, anchor points etched into stone.
The fox watched him. Slow blink. The tiniest twitch at the tip of a tail.
“This thing…” he said, nodding at the veil, “has been keeping you in here.”
He sank to a knee beside it.
He didn’t reach for it this time. Didn’t try to pet or joke or grin.
He just sat with it.
“…How long’s it been?” he asked softly.
No answer.
Not that he expected one.
But its body shifted, barely perceptible—a soft, instinctive lean, almost as if it was remembering what it meant to sit beside someone.
He skimmed the wards again, resting his elbows to his knees as he took in the sight of paper nailed crooked into beams, brittle ink, layered scripture like a prayer someone stopped believing in.
None of it felt reverent.
It felt like a cage.
He knew that feeling well.
“You know I can break it, right?”
Satoru pulled his sunglasses off and let them hang from his collar.
He slid his sunglasses off, letting them hang from his collar. “I don’t know what you are yet, or who put you here, or why.” His gaze went back to the fox. “But you saved Shoko. You didn’t run. You didn’t try to hurt us”
His voice stayed easy, certain. “So I’m getting you out.”
Its fur bristled—not in aggression, but in something akin to wariness. Its ears flattened even further, and it took one small step back, paws dragging softly in the snow.
He could feel it, even without touching the fox—the pull of its energy. Its power pulled tight and small, old and aching to move, too used to being pinned.
He set his palm to the nearest seal.
His energy surged—bright, clean—meeting the old array with a jolt. The shrine answered with a long, strained groan.
Satoru only grinned.
“…And besides,” he added lightly, “if you were gonna kill me, you probably would’ve tried it by now.”
With a flick of his wrist, he tore the first seal free.
A ripple split through the shrine.
The air cracked—once, twice—then fractured completely, like light splitting stone.
The wards unraveled. The scripture failed.
The barrier collapsed like dust in a sunbeam.
And for the first time in a very, very long time—
Light broke through.
Pale and silver, it slipped through the broken veil and touched the ground like a whisper.
Soft. Cold. Unmistakably real.
𖦹⭒°｡⋆⪩. .⪨⋆｡°⭒𖦹
When Satoru stepped back into the clearing, the fox no longer in his arms but trotting at his heels, the first thing he registered wasn’t the odd silence between his friends.
It was the blood.
Dark red on white snow, spread in ugly, slick patches. Shoko was propped against a trunk, jacket half off her shoulder and soaked through. Suguru knelt beside her, jaw tight, one hand hovering over the wound, the other braced in the drift. His cursed energy sat low and shaky, held down by sheer will.
“Shoko—?”
“I’m fine,” she ground out, which was exactly what someone not fine would say.
“She’s not,” Suguru snapped, not looking up. “It’s deep. I can’t tell how bad it is. There’s just too much—”
“I was fine,” Shoko insisted. Her face was pale, sweat gathering at her temples despite the cold. “I just—misjudged the last hit, okay?”
“You can’t use your technique on yourself,” Satoru cut in, already dropping to her side.
“I know,” she bit out, frustrated. “I was waiting until we got back—”
“Until you bled out?” Suguru barked.
“I’ve had worse,” she tried again, though her voice wavered.
“No,” Satoru said quietly, eyes on the wound, mouth a hard line. “You haven’t.”
Suguru met his gaze decisively. “You’re faster.”
Satoru didn’t waste time arguing. He nodded once, then moved—arms already curling beneath Shoko’s knees and back, careful not to jostle her ribs.
“You’re going to pass out in, like, three minutes,” he said, as lightly as he could manage.
“I hate being carried,” Shoko muttered faintly, her head falling against his chest anyway.
At the edge of the clearing, the fox watched, blue eyes fixed on Shoko, tails swaying. And then—like a decision had clicked into place—it trotted forward, snow shifting with every step.
Three heads turned.
Suguru’s cursed energy flared sharply. Shoko stiffened where she sat.
“Satoru,” Suguru said warningly. “Keep it back.”
“What, him?” Satoru glanced down. “He’s chill.”
“It’s a cursed spirit,” Shoko argued, finger bunching the front of Satoru’s coat.
Its ears flattened slightly at the comment. Then, with intention, the fox padded close, nosing at the torn edges of Shoko’s jacket. She hissed a little when its cold fur brushed her side.
“Hey—cut that out—what—”
The air rippled.
White fur shimmered in the light and began to shift as everything snapped bright. Light bloomed from the fox, like a solar flare.
All three of them flinched.
Shoko cursed and turned her face away, one hand lifting instinctively to shield her eyes. Suguru narrowed his gaze, squinting against the glare. Even Satoru, half-buried in blood-soaked snow with a wounded sorcerer in his arms, scowled and yanked his sunglasses into place.
And when the glow faded—
Where the fox had been, a girl now knelt in the snow.
Barefoot. Bare-legged. White hair spilling long enough to veil her. Even her skin held a faint, golden glow in the muted light, as if the sun itself had settled just beneath her ribs.
Cerulean eyes blinked up at them, bright and eager, as she leaned forward, thrilled to finally be doing something.
She smiled like the sun.
Then stuck out her arm.
“Bite me,” she said, cheerful as anything.