Once properly riled up, the two of them completely forgot that Asou Akiya was the rightful owner of the room.
They bickered, then shoved each other—escalating until the knitted, multicolored cat finally sailed through the air and smacked one of them squarely on the head, bringing the chaos to an abrupt halt.
Geto caught the feline-shaped cursed corpse just before it could strike again, dodging with practiced reflexes. "What is this? One of Yaga-sensei's cursed dolls?"
Gojo, who'd spent the last several minutes being wrongfully accused—and, out of reluctant respect for the dorm, hadn't unleashed his full power—had taken a humiliating beating for nothing.
Fuming, he stamped his foot like a petulant child and pointed an accusing finger at the black-haired boy slowly sitting up in bed. "Do you even have a mouth?! Were you really gonna let me take the fall for this?!"
Asou rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Hmm? Did someone just say something about… slapping?"
Gojo's blood ran cold.
Geto's glare snapped back to him—hotter, sharper, as if the embers of his earlier anger had just been doused in gasoline.
Innocent to a fault—and terrible at lying—Gojo blurted out, "Weird Bangs, I was just talking! I never actually hit him!"
Asou gently touched the bruise blooming on his cheek, his morning grumpiness still very much intact. He'd just woken to the sound of Gojo loudly justifying himself, as if barging into a classmate's room at dawn and indirectly causing said classmate to get punched by a cursed doll were perfectly reasonable behavior.
A quiet, mischievous spark flickered in his chest.
In the sweetest, most artfully passive-aggressive tone imaginable, he turned to Geto and said, "It's fine, Geto. I shouldn't expect an apology from Gojo anyway."
"Move," Geto said curtly, already stepping in as if he'd done this a hundred times before. He fetched a damp towel and gently pressed it to Asou's swollen cheek.
Gojo stood frozen at the bedside, eyes wide with bewildered innocence, watching Geto tend to Asou with quiet efficiency.
Was the misunderstanding cleared up?
It seemed not—yet somehow, things had only gotten worse.
And was Gojo Satoru the type to stand by and watch? Absolutely not.
He shoved himself between them, snatched the towel, and haphazardly scrubbed at Asou's face in a clumsy imitation of Geto's care. The effort was so rough and unrefined it bordered on assault.
Asou winced—it hurt—but seeing the genuine, if inept, concern in Gojo's eyes, he swallowed his complaint and bore it in silence.
"Little tangerine," Gojo mumbled, his usual bravado deflating into something oddly vulnerable, "I didn't come here to pick a fight. Don't twist my words. You get me. More than Weird Bangs. More than Yaga-sensei. You always understand what I'm really saying."
Geto tried to pry Gojo away, but the white-haired boy—dressed in loose white sleepwear—had somehow fused himself to the edge of the bed like glue.
This was Gojo Satoru's signature brand of shameless persistence: his technique was Limitless, and so, apparently, was his audacity.
Asou sighed, then offered the only compromise that might actually work:
"Go fix the door you kicked in… and maybe I'll cut you a little slack."
Asou Akiya, with the effortless authority of someone who'd long since mastered the art of wrangling divine heirs, casually assigned the Gojo clan's pampered young master his first-ever handyman duty.
"On it!"
Gojo, impatient by nature and thoroughly done with dragging things out, bolted to the doorway like a whirlwind. Using his Six Eyes, he assessed the damage in an instant—then, with zero regard for structural integrity, tore the broken door off its hinges in a flurry of splinters. He dragged over an unused door from a vacant dorm room and, employing the time-honored method of "robbing Peter to pay Paul," slapped it into place. Just like that, his inaugural home repair was complete.
"Still, you're something else," Geto remarked, equal parts impressed and exasperated. He cast a sidelong glance at Asou, voice lowering. "But you can't keep indulging him like this."
Asou, still holding the cool compress to his cheek, gave a wry smile. "Believe me or not—you'll be the next 'me' someday."
Geto knew himself too well to buy that. "Impossible!"
Asou lifted the colorful knitted cat and held it out toward Geto. "Cute, isn't it?"
Geto didn't even blink. "Kind of ugly, honestly."
"Then," Asou pressed, eyes glinting with gentle mischief, "if it were a hundred times cuter—and had zero ill intent—would you forgive its little cat-punch?"
Geto stared at the garish doll in Asou's hands, suddenly aware he was being metaphorically dissected.
What would a cat a hundred times cuter even look like?
Gojo's a human—he doesn't meow. But… white fur, blue eyes, long hair…
Wait—no, he's not cute at all!
…Though that kind of cat? Yeah, that'd be kinda adorable.
—
Asou had already risen early, washed up, and stepped out of the bathroom just as breakfast drama unfolded.
The gas stove in the dorm's shared kitchen was already lit. Geto had opened the fridge and begun pulling out ingredients—a stark, almost poetic contrast to Gojo's usual helplessness in domestic matters.
"Sorry to keep burdening you with cooking, Asou," Geto said with genuine humility. "I can't just sit back and accept your help without giving something back. Let me make breakfast today."
Gojo, having just finished his door-repair masterpiece, sauntered in behind him and announced without hesitation, "Make one for me too!"
Geto's expression remained calm, detached. "Only if Asou agrees."
Both boys turned to look at Asou.
"Fine," Asou said lightly, "but you'll have to contribute some ingredients."
Without hesitation, Gojo sprinted back to his own dorm room and returned moments later hugging an enormous armful of premium-grade ingredients—most of which were far too luxurious for a simple breakfast. Asou took the whole bundle and immediately passed it all to Geto.
It was poetic justice, really—just like the time Gojo had casually handed over Asou's carefully purchased Kyoto confections to Ieri Shoko. What goes around comes around.
"Geto," Asou said with a knowing smile, "don't hold back. Consider it fair trade: one breakfast from you for a full day's worth of his lunch supplies."
Geto accepted the bounty without hesitation. "Not a bad deal. I've never cooked with ingredients this good before."
Asou stroked his chin, impressed by Geto's natural domestic ease. No wonder he'll become "Papa Suguru" by seventeen—some people are just born caretakers.
"Need an apron?"
Geto's reply was instant and firm. "No."
Gojo clearly understood the unspoken exchange between them—but he couldn't have cared less. With a soft, dismissive hum, he wandered into the living area, eyes scanning the immaculate space with idle curiosity.
Never one to sit still, he drifted over to Asou's bookshelf, rummaging through rows of world literature in search of hidden manga, or flipping through stacks of Japanese high school study guides, hoping to uncover something even Tokyo Jujutsu High students hadn't read.
At the very edge of the shelf, tucked in a shadowed corner, something caught his eye.
A glossy photo book: Inoue Waka's Photobook.
The cover featured a woman dressed in bold, alluring fashion—confident, radiant, unmistakably provocative.
Whoa! Is this some famous Japanese actress?
Does the little tangerine like this type?
Raised in the rigid confines of the Gojo clan, Gojo had never encountered women like this. The Gojo estate forbade modern attire for female relatives, and on Tokyo's streets, he usually ignored flashy, stylish women altogether.
But a photobook was different. It wasn't a real person—it was a curated illusion. Stripped of messy reality, emotions, and flaws, it preserved only beauty, frozen in perfect light for public admiration.
Through the Six Eyes, even this image felt strangely pure.
No ugliness.
No clinging negative emotions.
Just the flawless surface of a star—untouched by the chaos of the human world.
"He's… looking at a photobook?" Geto's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He blinked rapidly, convinced he was hallucinating.
"Yeah," Asou said easily. "Inoue Waka's. I bought it back in March—only flipped through it once. Might as well give it to Gojo now as a belated welcome gift."
Asou seemed genuinely pleased by the turn of events. "Don't pretend you've never seen one. It's basically required viewing for guys our age."
"You're way too shameless about it," Geto muttered, still thrown. "Aren't these things supposed to be hidden under the bed?"
"Under the bed?" Asou gaped at him. "Are you joking? Or do you seriously underestimate Gojo's eyes?"
"…" Geto fell silent—then, with sudden, horrified clarity, whispered, "I will never let him into my dorm."
"Stay strong," Asou said solemnly, already inhaling the rich aroma of breakfast. "You're the moral backbone of our class. Don't let Gojo corrupt your standards too soon." He gestured toward the stove. "Now hurry—fish the noodles out before they overcook."
Outside, the sky slowly brightened, pale gold bleeding into the horizon. A wisp of cooking smoke curled from the dorm's chimney, carrying the warm, savory scent of breakfast into the summer air.
On the table sat three large bowls of steaming noodles. In Asou Akiya's modest dorm room, two male classmates sat side by side, sharing a simple, unhurried meal—something quietly ordinary, yet profoundly rare for boys destined to shape the jujutsu world.
Gojo Satoru sipped his broth delicately with a spoon, while Asou and Geto lifted their bowls straight to their lips, drinking deeply like true connoisseurs of comfort food.
After a comfortable silence, Geto finally asked a question that had been itching at him for weeks: "Gojo… what exactly does 'little tangerine' mean?"
Gojo said nothing.
Asou answered for him, voice light but precise. "In his eyes, everyone in the jujutsu high command is a 'tangerine.' The elders are 'old tangerines.' Younger ones like us are 'little tangerines.' And the rotten, morally decayed bureaucrats at Jujutsu Headquarters? They're the 'rotten tangerines.'"
Geto's eyes widened in sudden understanding—then, without thinking, he added, "So… what am I?"
Gojo instantly lit up, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Weird Bangs! You've got the most outrageously weird, suspicious-looking fringe I've ever seen—on a face that's practically designed to trick people!"
Geto: "…."
Asou calmly picked up a slice of soft-cooked egg with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth. "You've gotten used to it by now, haven't you?"
"Not even a little!" Geto snapped, exasperated. "I've been running nonstop—called out on missions at midnight, barely getting any sleep. And then I come back to school only to deal with a classmate who shouts nicknames at me all day like a five-year-old!"
Asou nodded sagely. "Elementary schooler."
"Exactly!" Geto said, slamming his bowl down for emphasis. "That's exactly what it is—elementary school behavior!"
Gojo, however, merely turned his head away, adopting an air of icy indifference—the very picture of a divine heir who had clearly never set foot in elementary school and therefore could not possibly comprehend such childishness.
But Geto wasn't about to let him off that easily. "You must've eaten a rotten tangerine once—and that's why you hate them so much, right?"
Gojo: "…."
Asou didn't miss a beat. With a serene smile, he added, "I bet he accidentally *stepped* on one. Juice exploded everywhere. He was traumatized."
Gojo: "…."
Then Asou leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting with quiet cunning. "Think about it—you have the Limitless technique, yet you still loathe rotten tangerines. That means you've smelled their awful stench before. No matter how powerful your technique is, it can't stop you from needing to breathe. If the smell was strong enough to disgust you, that proves air—and by extension, odor—is your weakness. Geto… you see what to do now, don't you?"
Geto's mind clicked into gear like a lock snapping open. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face. "Asou… you're a genius. Thank you."
After all, he mused, curses come in all varieties—and I'm certain there's no shortage of foul-smelling ones out there…
Gojo narrowed his eyes, voice dropping to a low, icy threat. "Little tangerine… be careful, or I'll punch you."
Asou merely took another slow sip of broth, utterly unruffled. "Oh? So you enjoy picking on weaker classmates?"
Gojo, for all his brilliance, had never mastered the art of verbal sparring—especially not against Asou's razor-sharp calm. And now, with Geto radiating a new, unsettling kind of intensity beside him, Gojo felt something unfamiliar flicker in his chest:
Doubt.
Discomfort.
Surely not… Did this mean he'd have to start defending himself against all kinds of noxious gases from now on?
Gojo broke out in a cold sweat. His memory was far too sharp—too vivid—and without his consent, his mind helplessly replayed an involuntary parade of every foul stench he'd ever encountered: rotting garbage, swampy decay, sulfuric curses, the acrid tang of mildew, the putrid breath of low-grade spirits… Each memory hit him with nauseating clarity, as vivid as if he were smelling them all over again.
He finished his meal in a foul mood, then placed his bamboo chopsticks down on the plate with a crisp snap, perfectly aligned. Spinning his chair around, he gave Asou Akiya's calf a light, petulant kick—just enough to convey his displeasure, not enough to truly hurt.
"Be my assistant supervisor," he declared, "and I'll forgive you."
Geto let out a mocking laugh. "Ohhh? Look who's throwing another 'Three Great Families young master' tantrum~"
Gojo ignored him completely. His gaze remained fixed on Asou, unwilling to waste even a syllable explaining himself to Geto.
He'd studied clan management, after all. A classmate who was articulate, resourceful, and good with details—someone who could handle logistics, negotiations, and the tedium of dealing with ordinary people—would perfectly compensate for his own weaknesses outside of combat. It would save him endless hours of pointless social drudgery.
"I'll protect you during missions," Gojo added, voice dropping slightly, almost earnest. "I won't let you die."
The words were unexpectedly sincere—almost gentle—and Asou couldn't help but marvel internally: So even fifteen-year-old Gojo Satoru is capable of speaking like a normal human being.
Then, without hesitation, he replied: "No."
Gojo tilted his head, puzzled. "Don't you need money?"
"I need money," Asou conceded, "but I still won't do it. I want to be a jujutsu sorcerer—not someone's assistant."
Gojo, stubborn as ever, leaned forward. "I won't slap you. I won't hit you. You don't have to be afraid of me."
Asou met his gaze evenly. "If I were afraid," he said calmly, "why wouldn't I just team up with Geto instead?"
Gojo threw his arms out dramatically and practically shouted, "I need you way more than he does!"
To him, this Asou Akiya—who made milk tea just the way he liked it, crafted sukiyaki meatballs so delicious they bordered on divine, and could even forge handwriting well enough to whip up flawless apology letters on his behalf—was, without question, the best "little tangerine" he'd ever met since starting school.
Geto Suguru simply rested his chin in his palm, watching Gojo spout utterly meaningless declarations with the detached amusement of someone observing a spoiled cat throw a tantrum.
Asou, meanwhile, felt his heart skip at Gojo's unintentionally earnest plea—so artlessly sincere it bordered on adorable. He let out a low, playful whistle and teased, "You might be able to afford a high price… but you can't afford my price."
"Akiya," Gojo said—his voice suddenly calm, almost solemn.
Like a divine child untouched by worldly guile, he brushed aside the joke as if it were a passing breeze, meeting Asou's gaze with the clarity of an unclouded mirror.
"Then name your price."
If you don't state it, how will you ever know if I can't buy what you're selling?
…
Asou kept smiling—never answering, never giving in. He smiled so long his cheeks began to ache, until finally, salvation arrived in the form of Geto stepping in.
Geto glanced at an urgent message on his phone, then firmly pressed down on Gojo's capricious outburst like a hand smothering a spark.
"Gojo," he said evenly, "new mission just came through. We need to move out."
—