Morning came too quickly.
Akira woke to sunlight streaming through his window and the immediate, crushing awareness that he hadn't slept well. Again. His dreams had been fragmented—flashes of office cubicles, the taste of stale coffee, a security guard's flashlight beam cutting through darkness, children's laughter that turned into screaming. None of it his. All of it theirs.
The curses' memories bled into his sleep now. Another side effect he hadn't anticipated.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair, and immediately checked his arms. The veins were visible but faint, thin dark lines that could pass for unusual pigmentation if no one looked too closely. Manageable. He pulled on a long-sleeved shirt anyway—black, because it hid the traces better than lighter colors—and made his way to the bathroom.
The face in the mirror looked tired. Dark circles under brown eyes that seemed slightly duller than they'd been three months ago. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that screamed monster. Just a seventeen-year-old who wasn't sleeping enough. Normal teenage exhaustion.
Except for the way his reflection's eyes caught the light wrong for just a moment, flashing violet before settling back to brown.
Akira looked away and brushed his teeth.
The classroom was already half-full when he arrived.
Tokyo Jujutsu High didn't have many students—couldn't afford to, given the mortality rate and the rarity of actually talented sorcerers. The second-year class consisted of exactly four people, and three of them were already present when Akira slipped through the door.
Yuji Itadori sat near the window, legs stretched out under the desk, looking remarkably awake for someone who'd probably been up until midnight training. He had that quality about him—perpetual energy, like a puppy who'd never learned the concept of exhaustion. When he saw Akira, his face split into an easy grin.
"Kurozawa! Morning!" He waved enthusiastically. "You look like hell, man. Late night?"
"Training," Akira said, sliding into the desk beside him. "You know how it is."
"Do I ever." Yuji stretched, joints popping. "Though Gojo-sensei keeps telling me I need to work smarter, not harder. Whatever that means coming from him."
Two desks ahead, Megumi Fushiguro didn't turn around, but his shoulders shifted slightly—the minimal acknowledgment that passed for greeting from someone as economical with expression as him. He was reading something, a small paperback held in one hand, the other idly tracing patterns on the desk that might've been technique practice or simple fidgeting.
Nobara Kugisaki sat perpendicular to Megumi, chair turned sideways so she could rest her feet on the empty desk beside her. She was scrolling through her phone with the intense focus of someone comparing prices across multiple shopping sites. When Akira sat down, she glanced up, gave him a quick once-over, then returned to her screen.
"Still wearing long sleeves," she observed without looking at him. "It's June, Kurozawa. You're going to die of heatstroke."
"I run cold," Akira lied smoothly. He'd gotten better at lying over the past few months. Practice made perfect.
"You run weird, is what you run." But there was no real bite in her words. Nobara's bluntness was a constant, familiar thing—comforting in its predictability. "Whatever. Your funeral. Literally, if you pass out during today's mission."
"We have a mission?" Akira pulled out his own phone, checking for notifications he'd apparently missed.
"Grade Three, scheduled for this afternoon." Megumi spoke without turning, voice flat and factual. "Abandoned apartment complex in Saitama. Standard exorcism. All four of us assigned."
Yuji leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs. "Should be pretty straightforward. Nothing we haven't handled before. Though I'm glad we're all going together—feels like forever since we did a full team mission."
It had been three weeks. Akira knew because he'd been counting. Three weeks since he'd worked directly with the others, three weeks of solo assignments and individual training. Three weeks of Gojo-sensei carefully separating him from the group.
Testing him. Observing.
"They don't trust you," the voice whispered, faint enough that Akira could almost ignore it. "They know something's wrong."
They didn't know. They couldn't. He'd been so careful.
"Looking forward to it," Akira said, and meant it. Group missions meant witnesses. Witnesses meant accountability. Accountability meant he couldn't absorb, couldn't feed the thing growing inside him. A day of forced restraint sounded like a blessing.
The classroom door slid open and their instructor walked in—not Gojo, thankfully, but Atsuya Kusakabe, a Grade One sorcerer who taught practical combat theory. He looked perpetually exhausted, which Akira found oddly relatable.
"Morning," Kusakabe said, setting down a stack of papers that was probably another theoretical examination none of them would enjoy. "Since you've all got field work this afternoon, we'll keep this brief. Today's topic: residual cursed energy and environmental contamination. Riveting stuff, I promise."
Nobara groaned theatrically. Yuji's expression glazed over immediately. Megumi, somehow, actually looked interested.
Akira pulled out a notebook and tried to focus.
The lesson crawled by with the speed of continental drift.
Kusakabe was a competent teacher, but even he couldn't make the technical mechanics of curse residue engaging. Akira took notes automatically, his handwriting neat and controlled, while his mind wandered to the afternoon's mission.
Grade Three. Standard exorcism. Easy work for four second-years, especially this particular group. Yuji had Sukuna's physical enhancements even when the King of Curses wasn't active. Megumi's Ten Shadows Technique gave him versatility and range. Nobara's Straw Doll Technique was devastatingly effective against most curses. And Akira—
Akira had power he couldn't fully explain and didn't dare use openly.
Four absorbed curses sat in whatever space passed for his soul, their energy bleeding into his reserves. He was stronger than he should be. Faster. More durable. But he couldn't demonstrate any of it without raising questions he couldn't answer.
So he'd have to hold back. Fight at the level expected of a second-year with no particular special abilities. Stay in the background, support the others, don't draw attention.
Be normal.
"Pathetic," the voice hissed. "Hiding like a rat. You could end this mission in seconds. You could show them what you really are."
Akira's pen pressed harder against the paper, nearly tearing through it. He forced his grip to relax, made himself breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The meditation techniques Gojo had taught them.
Focus on the present. Don't engage with intrusive thoughts. Let them pass like clouds.
Except these thoughts had voices. Had personalities. Had memories that weren't his own.
"Kurozawa?"
He blinked. Looked up. Kusakabe was staring at him with mild concern, and Akira realized with a sick jolt that he'd been asked a question and had no idea what it was.
"Sorry, sensei. Could you repeat that?"
Kusakabe's expression shifted toward something that might've been sympathy. "I asked if you could explain the difference between residual cursed energy from a living sorcerer versus from an exorcised curse."
A softball question. Basic theory from first year.
"Living sorcerers leave energy signatures that fade naturally over time," Akira recited, pulling the information from memory. "Exorcised curses leave contamination that lingers and can spawn new curses if the area has sufficient negative emotion. The energy signature is structurally different—sorcerer energy maintains coherence even after the sorcerer leaves, while curse residue fragments and disperses chaotically."
"Correct." Kusakabe nodded. "Pay attention, Kurozawa. You look like you're somewhere else entirely."
"Yes, sensei. Sorry."
Nobara was watching him now, one eyebrow raised. Yuji had twisted in his seat, concern evident on his open face. Even Megumi had glanced back, dark eyes assessing.
Great. Perfect. Exactly the attention he didn't want.
Akira forced a sheepish smile. "Didn't sleep well. Long training session."
"Right." Kusakabe didn't sound convinced, but he moved on. "Now, regarding environmental contamination thresholds..."
The lecture continued. Akira kept his eyes on his notebook and his thoughts carefully blank.
Lunch was served in the cafeteria—a small, efficient space that barely qualified for the name given the student population. Today's offering was curry rice, prepared by the auxiliary staff who managed the mundane aspects of Jujutsu High's operation.
Akira ate mechanically, tasting nothing. Across the table, Yuji was enthusiastically explaining something about a movie he'd watched, hands gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over Megumi's water glass. Nobara was critiquing the film's fashion choices with surgical precision. Megumi ate in silence, occasionally interjecting with dry observations.
Normal. Easy. The kind of casual interaction that should've been comforting.
Instead, Akira felt like he was watching them through glass. Present but separate. Part of the group but fundamentally apart.
"—and then the protagonist just forgives the villain!" Yuji was saying, outrage evident. "No consequences, no accountability, just 'we're cool now.' What kind of message is that?"
"That forgiveness is possible?" Megumi suggested mildly.
"That writers are lazy," Nobara countered. "If you're going to have a redemption arc, earn it. Make them suffer first. Make them prove they've changed."
"Suffering doesn't equal redemption though," Yuji argued. "It's about genuine remorse and changed behavior."
"Right, but how do you know the remorse is genuine without testing it?"
Akira listened to them debate, the easy back-and-forth of people who'd grown comfortable with each other. He wanted to contribute, to join in, but his mind kept drifting to the mission ahead. To the curse they'd be facing. To the temptation that would come when they finally encountered it.
Every mission was a test now. Every curse a potential meal.
And the hunger was getting harder to ignore.
"What do you think, Kurozawa?"
He looked up. Yuji was watching him expectantly, the question clearly directed his way.
"About redemption arcs," Yuji clarified. "Do you think people—or curses, I guess—can really change? Or are we just stuck being what we are?"
The question landed like a physical blow.
Akira set down his chopsticks carefully. "I think... people can change. But change requires choice. Constant, repeated choice. It's not a one-time decision—it's choosing over and over to be different than you were."
"Heavy," Nobara observed. "You've been thinking about this."
"Just generally. Philosophy stuff." Akira picked up his water, using the motion to avoid eye contact. "Change is possible. But it's hard. And sometimes the things we change into aren't better. Just different."
Silence fell over the table, the kind that indicated he'd said something too revealing, too honest. Yuji was frowning slightly, not in disapproval but in that way he did when he was trying to understand something complex. Megumi had gone very still, watching Akira with an intensity that suggested he'd noticed the subtext.
Nobara just shrugged. "Well, that got dark. Remind me not to ask Kurozawa philosophical questions before missions. Bad for morale."
The moment broke. Conversation resumed. But Akira felt Megumi's gaze linger for a few seconds longer before he returned to his food.
He knows something's off, Akira thought. Maybe not what, but something.
It was only a matter of time.
They departed for Saitama at two o'clock, taking one of the school's unmarked vans. The driver was an auxiliary manager—a non-sorcerer who could see curses but not fight them, relegated to support roles. He navigated the afternoon traffic with practiced efficiency while the four students sat in the back.
Yuji had claimed the window seat and was staring out at the cityscape sliding past, one leg bouncing with excess energy. Nobara was reapplying her lipstick using a compact mirror, completely unbothered by the van's motion. Megumi sat beside Akira, reading the same paperback from earlier.
Akira caught a glimpse of the title: Crime and Punishment.
"Light reading?" he asked quietly.
Megumi didn't look up. "It's about consequences. Guilt. Whether suffering can absolve crime."
"And can it?"
"The protagonist thinks so. I'm not convinced." Megumi turned a page. "Guilt is internal. Punishment is external. Neither necessarily leads to redemption."
"Then what does?"
"I'll let you know when I figure it out."
They lapsed into silence. Outside, Tokyo gave way to Saitama's suburbs—denser, older, buildings crowded together like they were trying to share warmth. The afternoon sun cast everything in gold, beautiful and indifferent to the darkness they were driving toward.
Akira felt his cursed energy stirring, responding to proximity to their target. The apartment complex was close now. He could sense it—the thick, cloying presence of accumulated negative emotion. Fear. Despair. The kind of environment where curses bred like bacteria.
His veins prickled. Not darkening yet, but threatening. The absorbed curses were waking up, drawn to the presence of their own kind like sharks to blood.
"Finally," the voice murmured. "Fresh meat. You're hungry, I can feel it. Don't pretend you're not."
He wasn't. That was the problem.
The van pulled to a stop in front of a chain-link fence surrounding a multi-story apartment building that looked like it had been abandoned mid-construction. Concrete and exposed rebar, windows covered with plywood, graffiti decorating the ground floor. A sign declared it condemned, unsafe for entry.
Perfect curse breeding ground.
"We're here," the driver announced unnecessarily. "Curse confirmed on the fourth floor, eastern section. Grade Three, possibly approaching Grade Two if it's been feeding. Standard procedure—assess, engage, exorcise. I'll maintain the barrier and monitor from here."
They exited the van. The air felt wrong immediately—heavy, like breathing through wet cloth. Akira could taste the cursed energy, acrid and rotten.
Yuji cracked his knuckles. "Right. Let's make this quick. I promised Gojo-sensei I'd help him test some new training equipment tonight, and I really don't want to be late."
"You volunteered for extra training?" Nobara looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Voluntarily?"
"It's fun!"
"You're insane."
Megumi was already moving toward the fence, hands forming the sign for his technique. "Focus. The curse won't wait for us to finish banter."
They filed through the gap in the fence, entering the construction site. The cursed energy grew thicker with every step, pressing down like atmospheric pressure before a storm. Akira felt his own energy responding, rising to meet the challenge, eager.
Too eager.
He clamped down on it, forcing it into submission. Not yet. Not here. Not in front of them.
The entrance to the building gaped open, a mouth of shadow and exposed concrete. Somewhere inside, something was waiting.
Yuji went in first, fearless as always. Nobara followed, hammer and nails already in hand. Megumi gestured for Akira to go ahead, then brought up the rear—tactical positioning, keeping the least experienced fighter in the middle where they could be protected.
Except Akira wasn't the least experienced anymore. Not by a long shot.
But they didn't know that.
The darkness swallowed them whole, and deep in Akira's soul, four voices began to sing in anticipation.