Inside, the air was stale. The small kitchen table was still set for two. A half-empty cup of tea had grown a fuzzy kingdom of mold. The TV was off, but a thin layer of dust covered everything like a silent scream.
“You think I’d let this place get condemned?” Gojo walked past him, his long coat trailing through the dust. He picked up the moldy teacup, made a face, and dropped it in the sink. “The jujutsu higher-ups wanted to seal it as a ‘sensitive site.’ Too much residual cursed energy from Sukuna’s rampage. I told them I’d personally destroy their entire clan if they touched a single floorboard.” Home RESULT FOR- JUJUTSU
“It’s a mess,” Yuji whispered.
Gojo snapped his fingers. The dust didn’t vanish. The mold didn’t disappear. But the air shifted. The oppressive weight of cursed energy—the memory of violence—thinned, just a little. Inside, the air was stale
Yuji walked to the window. The rain had stopped. Through the streaked glass, he could see a sliver of the Tokyo skyline, the neon signs flickering back to life. People were walking below. Normal people. Going to convenience stores, arguing on phones, living their small, fragile, beautiful lives. The TV was off, but a thin layer
“So are you,” Gojo said, flicking his forehead. “We’ll clean it up. Together.”
He was still a weapon. Still a vessel. Still a boy condemned to die.