As one of the only three sorcerers on the entire damn planet who could heal others, Ieiri Shoko was arguably one of the most important people in the jujutsu world.
Not that the perpetually constipated High Council had anything to worry about when they never let her go on missions. Nor was she allowed to grab a coffee or see a movie without supervision. Wherever Shoko went, she'd be saddled with an anxious assistant manager trailing behind wringing their hands while a Grade 1 sorcerer clung to her side as round-the-clock security.
However, last year's Night Parade of One Hundred Demons had left a significant chunk of the sorcerer population busted up and unable to return to duty. Suddenly, competent bodies were thin on the ground, especially the Grade 1 flavour.
And that, conveniently enough, was how Shoko managed to bulldoze the higher-ups into letting you, a mere Grade 2 student, act as her primary escort. Your knack for sneaking about unseen and setting up ambushes was top-notch. As for your ability to actually defend someone if things went sideways? Ah. Well. Let's just say that wasn't your strongest suit.
Principal Yaga had been particularly twitchy about the whole arrangement. Shoko, naturally, waved away his concerns with the breezy confidence of someone who hadn't considered the worst-case scenario because it was inconvenient.
"It'll be fine," she'd assured him, a statement held together by wishful thinking and several strategically omitted details.
Supposedly, the travel routes were meticulously swept beforehand, and her schedule was classified enough that, theoretically, no one should even know when or where to hunt her. You only came along to tick a box on their security checklist (and write her reports). Still, you weren't complaining too loudly. The hands-on experience was… educational. Oh, and the commission checks weren't too shabby either.
Those first few weeks playing bodyguard-lite had your nerves shot to hell. Every shadow looked menacing, every unexpected noise made you jump three feet in the air. But after months on the job with no incidents, your anxiety started to ease. Your shoulders gradually lowered from their position up around your ears. The knot in your stomach loosened, just a fraction.
Today's trip was supposed to be routine anyway. A few banged-up sorcerers from recent missions needed Shoko's magical healing touch to get them back at full strength. Obviously, hauling every injured person to your top secret school was a terrible idea for maintaining said secrecy. So they'd designated a local outpost as a temporary fix-it shop. Shoko pops in, works her magic, pops out. Simple. What could possibly go wrong?
With Megumi's brutal assessment of your personality still rattling around your brain, you threw open the door to Shoko's office without so much as a knock, barging right in.
"Ieiri-san," you hollered, planting your fists on your hips, "do you think I'm unpredictable and ruthless?"
Shoko was practically liquified in her desk chair, looking several shades paler and considerably more drained than her usual baseline of "perpetually tired." Her tousled brown hair exploded from her scalp like she'd recently made intimate acquaintance with a high-voltage fence. Dark circles, more like bruised ditches, sagged beneath bloodshot eyes.
She squinted up at you through the aforementioned bloodshot eyes. "Wow," she croaked. "You really do hate small talk, don't you?"
"What?" You blinked, momentarily confused by her flippant response. You'd been expecting a yes or no, maybe a bewildered stare, not commentary on your conversational approach. That wasn't the point!
"Yesterday," Shoko continued, punctuating the statement with a yawn that cracked her jaw, "you waltzed in here and asked if I believed in the Three-Fold Law. Just like that. No preamble." She stretched languidly, arms reaching toward the ceiling.
You opened your mouth to argue—surely you'd said something first—but then paused, conceding her point with a sheepish grimace. Okay, maybe she had a point.
"Eh…" you mumbled eloquently.
"And the day before that," Shoko pressed on, "you wanted to dissect the very nature of free will. Never a 'Hello, Ieiri.' Or a 'How's your frankly exhausting day going?' Just WHAM—existential crisis right off the bat."
Shoko attempted to smooth down her frazzled locks, a gesture of pure optimism, and only succeeded in knocking over a chipped mug brimming with pens. They clattered across her desk, scattering loose papers like startled pigeons.
"Sorry, Ieiri-san," you amended, shifting gears into hastily applied pleasantries. "Good morning. You're looking…" Your voice trailed off as your gaze swept across the absolute disaster zone that was her office. Files piled high enough to qualify as small geological features, discarded wrappers forming drifts in the corners, and a distinct aroma of stale coffee and antiseptic. "…um, incredibly busy."
"That's certainly one word for it," Shoko snorted, lamely patting at the haystack formerly known as her hair.
Shoko's office didn't just look messy; it looked like the aftermath of a tornado, tsunami, and earthquake threesome.
"Ieiri-san, what the actual fuck happened in here?" you gasped, gesturing wildly at the surrounding chaos with both hands. "I swear to all that is holy, I organized this office last week! I even labeled all the file folders!"
You punctuated your outrage by snatching a dust-coated file from a pile near your foot and waving it accusingly. Shoko grimaced, pained less by the mess and more by the sheer volume of your complaint.
"Pipe down, Spices," she grumbled, pressing the heels of her palms against her temples. "My head feels like it's about to fissure."
She made another half-hearted attempt to tame her hair, succeeding only in nudging an empty beer can off the edge of the desk. It hit the floor with a loud, echoing clunk that seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the building.
You crossed your arms in exasperation. "Are you drunk right now? We're supposed to leave in 5 minutes!"
"Not drunk," she muttered defensively, kneading her forehead with renewed vigor. "Just… spectacularly hungover. Now hush."
You cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Can't you just heal your hangover?"
"It doesn't work that way," Shoko groaned, slumping back down until her cheek rested on a stack of papers she was using as a makeshift pillow. The crumpled sheets muffled her disgruntled follow-up. "Now kindly stop talking so loud."
With a sigh, you gingerly stepped around the minefield of documents and stray office supplies littering the floor and made your way toward her chair.
"Should I ask Ijichi-san to reschedule?" you asked softly, already carding your fingers through Shoko's tangled hair to massage her scalp. She sank against your touch, the tension seeping from her shoulders.
"It's fine," Shoko murmured, her eyes fluttering closed. "I just need a minute." Her cursed energy flowed between you in gradual waves, smoothing into tranquility.
You continued quietly, fingertips tracing delicate circles, hoping to impart some small measure of the strength Shoko constantly poured out for so many others. She leaned into your touch like a neglected houseplant finally getting watered, the furrow between her brows slowly, miraculously, smoothing out.
Several moments passed in comfortable silence. The only sounds were Shoko's slow, steadying exhales and the faint scratch of your nails raking gently through the tangles of her hair.
Funny how things worked out. You'd really gotten to know Shoko back in your first year, courtesy of one Satoru Gojo and his unique interpretation of thoughtful gestures.
You still remembered fondly the day Gojo came flouncing into Shoko's lab. Yeah, he wasn't walking; he was flouncing, wheeling a giant, clattering metal cage filled to the brim with furious, chittering squirrels.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" he'd beamed, radiating the smug self-satisfaction of a cat presenting its owner with a freshly disemboweled mouse. "Got you a present, Sho!"
Shoko, hunched over her microscope, didn't even glance up. "Unless it's a bottle of genuinely aged whiskey," she stated flatly, "I don't want it."
Undeterred, Gojo swept an arm dramatically toward the agitated critters, who were now trying to gnaw their way through the metal bars. "Even better! These little furballs here got themselves possessed by some nasty curses a few towns over. Raised quite the ruckus, let me tell you. Figured you'd wanna crack 'em open, see what makes 'em tick."
That got Shoko to lift her head. Her bloodshot gaze fixed on the cage, and the dark circles under her eyes seemed to deepen, almost matching the abyssal darkness of her pupils. You expected Shoko to chew Gojo out for the unethical Valentine's gift and the sheer impracticality of housing cursed vermin. Instead, her eyes lit up with manic glee.
"Well, well, well," she murmured, a faint smirk ghosting her lips as she abandoned her microscope and drifted toward the cage. "What do we have here?"
One supremely enraged squirrel launched itself at the bars, hissing.
"Ooh, feisty!" Shoko wiggled her fingers at it, unfazed by the display of rodent rage. "All high-grade curses!"
Gojo folded his arms proudly. "Knew you'd love them. Aren't I just the sweetest?"
Then, not giving you time to process the sheer absurdity of the situation, he grabbed you by the back of your hoodie and hauled you forward, presenting you as if you were another Valentine's offering. "And I got you insurance, too!"
"Oi! Stop dragging me, sensei! I can walk perfectly fine on my own two feet!" you huffed, wriggling furiously out of his grasp. Being manhandled was not high on your list of favorite activities.
Gojo released you with a chuckle and clapped you on the back, a little too heavy-handedly. "Of course, of course! You stay here and watch over Sho for me, okay? If anything furry and possessed tries to bite her pretty little fingers off, you shoot it. Simple, right?"
You rubbed your stinging back, muttering under your breath about overpowered idiots, and shuffled dutifully over to a relatively clean corner. Bow held loosely, quiver adjusted, you prepared yourself for the highly probable event of needing to shoot rogue rodents mid-dissection.
Meanwhile, Shoko dove into her work, buzzing around the lab in a caffeine-fueled frenzy. She became utterly absorbed in her tests, oblivious to basic bodily needs like food, water, or bathroom breaks. Her hair grew progressively wilder, her lab coat accumulated an alarming number of unidentifiable stains, and soon she began to vaguely resemble one of the possessed creatures she was so intently studying.
On what felt like the final marathon day—possibly day three, possibly day four, time had become a fluid concept measured only in empty coffee cups and twitching squirrel parts—you found Shoko collapsed face down atop her keyboard, drooling onto the space bar. Dark smudges marred her pale cheeks. The report she was supposed to be writing remained distressingly blank.
Taking pity on the exhausted woman (and maybe just wanting the whole ordeal to be over), you gathered up her scattered, barely legible notes and immediately dismissed them. Instead, you started piecing together the technical write-up yourself from memory. You'd been watching, after all. It beat trying to read her handwriting, which looked like a spider had crawled through an inkwell and then had a seizure on the page.
Come morning, or possibly afternoon, Shoko jolted awake with a groan, blinking blearily at the completed report displayed on her monitor.
"I thought you could use some help," you explained, offering a timid smile, crossing your fingers behind your back and praying she wouldn't be upset that you'd dared touch her precious, incomprehensible research notes.
Wonder, quickly followed by disbelief, flooded Shoko's tired features.
"How did you…" she trailed off, frowning as she skimmed through the pages.
Your stomach did a nervous little flip. "Did I get something wrong? Just tell me, I can fix it—" you offered quickly, biting your bottom lip.
Shoko shook her head. "No, no. Everything's… perfect. You could read my handwriting?" she asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.
"Eh…" you laughed anxiously. "Not really. I relied on my memory mostly. I did watch you do… well, everything." You gestured vaguely toward the biohazard bins.
Shoko scrutinized you for a long moment, eyes narrowed in thought. Then, unexpectedly, her serious expression dissolved, replaced by a brilliant, slightly terrifying grin.
"Aren't you just full of surprises?" she chuckled, leaning across the desk and propping her chin in her palm. Her gaze held a new, sharp glint of fascination that made you vaguely uneasy.
"Tell ya what," Shoko suggested. "How about you stick around? I'll teach you all my gory secrets, show you how real research gets done—none of that textbook crap. In exchange, you handle the soul-crushing paperwork so I can actually get shit done around here. Deal?"
She extended her hand across the cluttered desk, head tilted expectantly. You blinked down at her offered palm, then back at her hopeful, manic expression. It sounded suspiciously like indentured servitude.
"Okay," you agreed, nodding firmly before sliding your hand into hers. "But you gotta get Yaga-sama to sign off on my hours. Properly. No funny business."
Her answering smile was dazzling, blindingly bright. "Consider it done."
And just like that, the pact was sealed. You weren't sure whether it counted as a binding vow or just a mutually beneficial arrangement born from cursed squirrels and sleep deprivation, but it felt significant nonetheless.
Your unofficial job description was simple: whenever you could orchestrate an escape from the thrilling trifecta of classes, training, and Gojo's clutches, you'd trek over to Shoko's wing for some quality chaos.
Sometimes, this chaos involved her patiently (or impatiently, depending on her caffeine levels) explaining the gleaming, humming, occasionally sparking machines that populated her lab. She'd gesture wildly, her explanations peppered with jargon you were only half-certain she wasn't making up on the spot, nearly taking your eye out with a flailing limb on more than one occasion. Her eyes would sparkle, thrilled to finally have a willing victim—eh, audience— for her techno-babble lectures. You mostly nodded along, trying to look intelligent while praying nothing exploded.
Other times, the curriculum shifted toward the more arcane arts. She'd show you how to whip up herbal blends that smelled of swamp water and regret, how to clean wounds that looked like something had tried to burrow out rather than in, and how to determine the precise dosage of painkillers needed to fell a very large, very annoyed sorcerer. It felt unnervingly like witchcraft, watching her expertly mix herbs, strange powders, and unidentifiable viscous liquids. Shoko breezily called it "alternative medicine." You privately harboured serious doubts about its legality, let alone its classification.
Naturally, you also got roped into assisting with her wacky experiments. This usually involved you dutifully jotting down observations ("Subject A screamed for 12.7 seconds before dissolving into goo when exposed to Sealing Talisman #4") while Shoko poked at shrieking curses with an assortment of sealing spells and pointy cursed tools.
Or you'd be elbow-deep in the mangled carcasses of formerly possessed animals (and, occasionally, formerly possessed humans, though Shoko tried to keep those dissections discreet). Between the gore and questionable ethics, she'd quiz you relentlessly on the most efficient ways to exorcize various flavors of nasty curses, her face lighting up whenever you managed to spit out the correct, textbook-defying answer she favored.
And then there was the mundane stuff. If an unfortunate soul got nicked, bruised, or otherwise non-catastrophically injured, you'd help Shoko patch them up with standard-issue gauze, antiseptic wipes, and the occasional stitch or two. She generally saved her fancy healing for injuries that involved inconvenient things like missing limbs, perforated organs, or imminent death. Anything less was just not worth the effort for her.
Your relationship with Shoko had remained comfortably within the bounds of "professional curiosity fueled by caffeine and morbid fascination," until the day you lost Shino.
The second you reached Shoko's lab wing, a prickle of wrongness crawled up your spine. Something felt… off. Rather than engrossed in her latest experiments or sprawled in her chair contemplating the bottom of a bottle, she lingered in the doorway, blocking the entrance. A strange heaviness clung to her typically crisp cursed energy. You knew something was very, very wrong, because Shoko was incredibly skilled at cursed energy control.
"What happened?" you asked sharply.
"Maybe you should take the day off," Shoko said, her voice so much softer than usual. Like she was approaching a cornered, wounded animal she didn't want to spook.
You were a jujutsu sorcerer. You knew that tone. You knew that look. That quiet pity was reserved for delivering bad news, usually involving body bags. Which meant inside Shoko's lab, on one of her sterile metal tables, lay someone's body. Someone important to you. Someone she didn't want you to see. A classmate? An assistant manager? Bile burned your throat.
Alarm bells screamed in your mind. Your muscles locked tight, nerves jangling a discordant rhythm beneath your skin. Sweat prickled your palms. Each breath felt like dragging sandpaper against the dread constricting your chest, tighter and tighter.
"Who is it?" you forced out, barely keeping your voice from breaking.
But you didn't really need the answer. Shoko's haunted eyes—duller than you'd ever seen them—already filled that empty space with the truth. A truth that sent your stomach plummeting as if you'd stepped off a cliff in the dark.
"One of your classmates," Shoko confirmed. "Yanagi Shino."
You felt like the world shattered under your feet.
Shino. Your Shino. Your best friend. The one who patiently endured your bullshit, who laughed at your terrible jokes, who promised you'd both make it through this godforsaken sorcerer life together. Beautiful, ridiculously talented, infuriatingly kind Shino. Gone.
"That can't be right," you choked out, shaking your head. The words felt foreign, nonsensical. "Shino's… she's strong. She's practically semi Grade 1 already…"
Numbness swamped you first. Then came the disbelief. And finally, anguish ripped through as the staggering loss carved out an unexpected void within your heart. The fluorescent lights of the hallway seemed to warp and swim. You grabbed the door frame to keep yourself upright, willing your legs not to give out. Shoko moved as if to catch you, but hesitated mere inches away, unsure if her touch would provide any comfort.
"I'm so sorry, Spices," she murmured, her voice raw with an emotion she rarely showed. "I tried everything."
You shook your head again, unable to process it, chest heaving with dry sobs. "I don't… I don't understand. Shino's so strong. How could she die… when I'm still alive?"
It should have been you.
The thought clawed its way up from the dark, ugly corners of your mind, sinking its teeth in deep. Out of your year, Hakari, Kirara, and Shino all had innate cursed techniques, massive cursed energy reserves, bright futures mapped out. You were the scrappy one, the one who got by on sheer grit and spite. You were the weakest link. The most expendable.
You'd always assumed you'd be the first to go. There was a twisted sort of comfort in that certainty. A perk, almost. Be the first casualty, and you'd never have to mourn your friends. Never have to feel this soul-crushing, suffocating pain that threatened to swallow you whole, leaving nothing behind.
As if sensing the dangerous spiral of your thoughts, Shoko's hand finally landed on your shoulder.
"Don't you dare say that," she commanded, her voice regaining a sliver of its standard sharpness. "Listen to me, Spices…"
But you couldn't listen. Wouldn't listen. Wrenching free of her grasp, you choked out, "I want to see her."
Shino had always, always had your back. Through thick and thin, missions and teenage angst. But you weren't there for her when it mattered. The least you could do—the only thing you could do now—was see her one last time. Say goodbye.
"It's bad," Shoko insisted gently yet firmly, stepping into the doorway, physically blocking your path. "Yanagi wouldn't want you to remember her like this. Please."
Shoko's warning gave you a brief pause, but only for a moment. The desperate, aching need to see Shino, to confirm the horrifying reality with your own eyes, overwhelmed everything else. You had to know this nightmare was real. Had to face the truth, no matter how much it shattered what was left of you. Because if you didn't see, a part of you would always cling to the impossible hope that it wasn't true.
Shouldering past Shoko, you stepped into the chilly lab. The lights overhead seemed too bright, almost accusatory, bleaching all color from the room and highlighting every grim detail. There, atop a metal table, lay the body. Your vision tunneled, the periphery blurring into meaningless shapes.
It was undeniably Shino, yet all wrong. Mangled. Ravaged. Almost unrecognizable. Her dark hair fanned across the silver surface, matted with crimson. That beloved face—the one that smiled, frowned, rolled its eyes at your antics—was rendered into a brutal mosaic of torn flesh and shattered bone.
You swayed violently, nausea and a pain so profound it felt physical crashing through you in relentless waves. Shoko touched your back, steadying your weak knees. She didn't say anything else, simply stood close as you took in this horrific sight. As the permanence of death imprinted itself behind your eyes.
Quiet moments crawled by before Shoko guided you away, into a chair where you gratefully collapsed. The gruesome image of Shino's ruined corpse lingered, seared into memory. You were afraid that Shoko was right, that this mangled horror would be your final, indelible memory of Shino.
But even as that fear tightened its cold grip, something else pushed back. Fiercer, brighter. Shino's actual face, not the wreck on the table. Her vibrance, her infectious laughter. All the beautiful things about her that you would never see again. Things not even death could erase.
When your words returned, they came choked. "She deserved… so much better than this."
Shoko exhaled slowly. "We rarely get what we deserve in this life." Her voice held an unexpected pain. "But it'll get better."
A harsh laugh scraped its way out of you. It wasn't funny. Nothing was funny. "Did it ever get better for you?"
The words were out before you could stop them. Your thoughts flitted back to the faded photograph you'd stumbled upon months ago, tucked deep within the glorious chaos of Shoko's desk drawer. You'd been attempting a strategic reorganization when the corner of worn photo paper had caught your eye. Gently, guiltily, you'd tugged it free.
There she was: Shoko, impossibly young, radiating a goofy sort of happiness, sandwiched between two boys. One was unmistakably a teenage Gojo, signature silver hair already defying gravity, that cheeky grin firmly in place.
It was the other boy who had held your gaze. Dark hair framing elegant features, kind eyes that seemed to hold a universe of exasperation, particularly aimed at Gojo. He was flipping a subtle bird behind Shoko's back, a gesture of fond annoyance at being pulled into the photo op. Gojo had his arm slung casually around his shoulders in easy camaraderie.
They looked so bright and full of joy. The date stamped in the corner marked it as over a decade old—a moment captured when they still had endless days of possibility ahead. The photo itself was softened with age, the corners bent, the surface bearing the faint impression of fingerprints, hinting at how often it might have been held, revisited.
You knew, instinctively, that this wasn't just a photo. It was a relic. A shrine to a time before… well, before whatever shadows now haunted Shoko's eyes. Something private that Shoko kept hidden away under layers of work and research, perhaps too painful to display yet too dear to simply throw away. You'd carefully tucked the faded memento back into its hiding place, burying it under the paperwork again, and never breathed a word about it.
Until now. God, you hadn't meant to bring up old wounds. It was the grief talking, clawing blindly for shared misery. You felt awful the instant the words left your mouth.
Shoko winced, just a slight tightening around her eyes. "You really don't pull your punches, huh?" she sighed, a shadow passing over her face.
"I'm sorry, Ieiri-san," you stammered. "That was… that was out of line." You bit down hard on your trembling lip, unsuccessfully willing the tears away.
"It's fine," Shoko's gaze dropped to the tile floor between your feet, her shoulders seeming to slump under an invisible, long-borne weight. "You love hard, so you grieve hard. I get it."
Then, her hand gently covered yours, rough skin and slender strength anchored you to the here and now.
"I'm not 'better' yet," Shoko admitted into the stillness. "But I'm trying to be. Every damn day. And I'd like it if you'd try with me."
Her quiet kindness finally undid the tenuous hold you had on your swirling grief. Great heaving sobs wracked through you as salty tears flooded unrestrained down your cheeks. You collapsed forward, all strength leaving your bones.
Shoko was there to catch you, wrapping you in a tender yet fierce embrace. She gathered you close against her chest as violent tremors shook your frame. Her arms shielded you from the outside world.
"I've got you," she murmured.
You clung to Shoko, hands fisted in her shirt like a lost child as wrenching cries were torn from your soul. In the shelter of her arms, you sensed more than saw her own tears falling—silent drops disappearing into your hair where only you would know. Her steady heartbeat and hushed reassurances slowly soothed away the sharp edges, grounding you back to the present.
By the time your sobs faded to hiccups then to the occasional sniffle, you felt utterly spent yet also lighter somehow, as if a festering splinter had been pulled free. Shoko continued carding her fingers through your hair in rhythmic comfort. Perhaps she was now giving you the kind of understanding and shelter she secretly wished someone had given her once upon a time.
In that moment, the lines blurred. Shoko had become far more than just a boss or a mentor. Over weeks and months of chaos, tears and laughter, she felt like home. Someone who knew you—really knew you—and still accepted every jagged edge and broken shard.
You blinked slowly as the vivid memory faded, returning you to Shoko's disaster zone of an office in the present. Your hands were still massaging Shoko's scalp as you attempted to fend off her hangover.
"You're too good to me," Shoko said, her voice almost a purr. "Even though I make you do all my paperwork and clean up my biohazardous messes."
You chuckled, digging your thumbs gently into the base of her skull. "I do learn a lot from you. And you're always taking care of everyone. Someone gotta take care of you once in a while."
Shoko just hummed something incoherent, already halfway back to whatever questionable dreamland heavy drinkers visited.
"You know, Ieiri-san," you began. "You should teach me that reverse cursed technique thingy. Maybe I could learn to heal people too. Then we could share the workload. Less chance of you ending up face-down on your desk by Wednesday."
Even if you never figured out how to heal others, just being able to patch yourself up would be one less thing for Shoko to worry about. The suggestion, however practical, was apparently unwelcome. Shoko stiffened under your hands, pulling away just enough to break the contact.
"Can't teach that," Shoko muttered, her voice suddenly losing its drowsy warmth. "Go pester Gojo about it."
You let out an exasperated huff. As if you hadn't tried that already. Gojo's explanation had been maddeningly vague, accompanied by a flippant "I dunno, I just figured it out when I was bleeding out and about to die, lol." Yeah, thanks, sensei. You weren't keen on replicating that particular learning method.
"Why can't you teach me?" you wheedled playfully, leaning forward again and giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "It's literally just cursed energy control, right? Fancy control, maybe, but still—"
Then, something clicked. A stray puzzle piece sliding into place with an almost audible thunk, coalescing with a dozen half-noticed oddities.
No one, you suddenly realized, had ever actually seen Shoko perform her healing. Not even you, her semi-official apprentice and chief meddler. Her excuse was always that she needed focus, that having people hovering was distracting. Fair enough. But even the sorcerers who stumbled out of her infirmary, miraculously whole again, never seemed to recall the process itself. Their memories of the healing were blank, as if that specific chunk of time had been wiped clean.
And the only jujutsu phenomenon universally acknowledged as unteachable… was an innate cursed technique.
"Unless…" you went on, "it's not just reversing cursed energy, is it?"
Shoko's tired eyes sharpened at that. "What are you getting at, Spices?"
"You can't teach it if it's your innate technique."
The words hung heavy between you and Shoko. Her shoulders tensed ever so slightly. The very air seemed to still.
Shoko neither confirmed nor denied your speculation. Her expression, however, turned cold and foreign. The sudden shift in Shoko's demeanor sent a chill down your spine.
"Just because a thought pops into that busy little head of yours," Shoko said, her tone dangerously quiet, meticulously controlled, "doesn't mean it needs to come out of your mouth."
You swallowed hard. Unease coiled tight in your stomach at the unspoken warning layered beneath her calm words. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled. You'd poked something you weren't supposed to, and the Shoko sitting before you now was not the one you thought you knew.
Seconds crawled by in oppressive silence, suddenly deafening. Well, fuck your insatiable curiosity and runaway tongue. Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone? You fidgeted nervously, grasping for something, anything to break the hostile tension. Your eyes darted around the office and landed on the literal mountains of documents scattered everywhere. Tactical retreat. Execute tactical retreat now.
"So… what's all this stuff anyway?" you asked, pointing vaguely at the surrounding paper avalanche.
As you backed away from the forbidden topic, the dangerous edge in Shoko seemed to recede, like claws retracting. "An old project," she replied. "From my senior year here. Couldn't get funding approved back then. Now, suddenly, the higher-ups are all ears."
Ah. That explained the recent geological event masquerading as clutter.
"What kind of project is it?" you asked, genuinely intrigued now that the immediate threat of accidentally uncovering Shoko's deepest secrets had passed.
"A healing spell, of sorts," she explained, tapping her fingers absently against the yellowed pages. "Well, not actual healing. More like… pausing the damage. Suspending injuries in time, putting them on pause. The idea is to prevent wounds from worsening, so you guys can retreat to safety for proper treatment."
"So… it's good they're finally funding it then?" you ventured carefully.
"It should be," Shoko muttered, her gaze drifting aside as if she didn't really believe it.
Before you could ponder the peculiar lack of enthusiasm for a potentially life-saving project, the doors slapped open with a loud bang. Ijichi stood wheezing in the doorway, face flushed a fetching shade of beetroot, his glasses askew.
"Ieiri-san!" he gasped, clutching his chest. "Why are you still sitting there? We were supposed to leave thirty minutes ago!"
You and Shoko exchanged a sheepish look. Oops. In all the chaos of the morning, you'd both lost track of time.
"Right, yes, of course," Shoko said breezily, pushing herself up from her desk with significantly more energy than she'd displayed all morning. "Just finalizing some crucial details."
Ijichi tapped his foot impatiently, looking profoundly unconvinced, given the paper-strewn battlefield of her office.
You scrambled to help Shoko gather her go-bag while she, once again, attempted to smooth her frazzled hair into some semblance of professional conduct. Within minutes, you had everything packed and were hustling out the door, propelled by the sheer force of Ijichi's irritation.
The trip was uneventful. The three of you arrived at the local outpost, and the routine proceeded as normal: Shoko vanished into a room to work her mysterious healing magic on a gaggle of banged-up sorcerers. You stood guard outside the door, trying to look intimidating while feeling bored and hoping there were vending machines nearby, while Ijichi typed furiously into his laptop.
"Urgent admin tasks," he grumbled when you dared ask what earth-shattering crisis he was working on.
Ijichi's tasks were always "urgent." You wondered if the man ever slept, or if he just plugged himself into a wall socket at night to recharge. Did he even know what a vacation was? Probably not.
A part of you—the nosy part that routinely got you into trouble—itched to peek inside the healing room. Or at least try to track Shoko's cursed energy, see if you could decipher what she was actually doing in there. You squashed the impulse, though. You might be too curious for your own good, prone to sticking your nose where it decidedly didn't belong, but you knew how important trust was in your line of work. Whatever Shoko was possibly hiding, innate technique or elaborate tax evasion scheme, was her own business. She trusted you to have her back, and that was exactly what you would do.
It was almost evening when Shoko was done. Golden hour bathed the mountain slopes in warm honeyed light as Ijichi's sleek car cruised down the highway. The fading rays set his rigid posture ablaze behind the wheel.
Some pop song warbled softly over the radio—generic J-Pop beats that made for decent road trip background noise. Predictably, the bland melody lulled Shoko into unconsciousness within minutes. She slumped against the passenger window, face smushed endearingly against the glass, her snores fogging up a small circle in sync with her breath.
You gazed out at the scenery lazily, chin propped on a fist. Twilight softened the landscape's edges, steeping miles of woodlands in mauve dreaminess. Even with your hand resting loosely on Soulstring, ever ready to respond to any unpleasant surprises, you couldn't stop your mind from wandering through fuzzy, half-formed thoughts. What takeout to grab on the way home, whether Yuji and Nobara had read any of the books you assigned them this morning (doubtful), what vital piece of teenage angst Megumi wanted to discuss later tonight…
The peaceful trip took a shitty turn when an abrupt spike of cursed energy jolted your senses to high alert. Adrenaline instantly flooded your veins as you bolted upright, fingers already wrapping around the grip of your bow. Beside you, Shoko stirred as well.
"What is it?" she asked, blinking away the drowsiness.
You inhaled slowly through your nose, honing your focus on the fast approaching blob of cursed energy. Powerful. Sorcerers, not curses. Their combined energy prickling your skin—they were clearly locking onto your location.
"Company," you said tersely. "Multiple sorcerers, all high grade, heading straight for us. And they're moving fast."
Ijichi's gaze snapped up to the rearview mirror, knuckles blanching white on the steering wheel. The mirror reflected nothing but empty, darkening highway.
"Are they targeting us specifically?" he asked, his timid voice strained.
"Well," you scoffed. "Unless there's an underground jujutsu racing tournament we're conveniently on the route for… We're getting jumped, Ijichi-san."