Scene 1
The wooden dojo echoed with the rhythmic sounds of strikes and focused breaths. Aimi stood at the front, her long black hair tied into a high ponytail. She moved quietly between students, adjusting stances, correcting forms.
Aimi wasn't just a good teacher—she was an exceptional fighter. Her strength, speed, and precision felt inhuman, earned through relentless practice and rare talent.
Her parents had pushed her into martial arts early, then left when she was twelve to work overseas. Since then, all she'd received were monthly deposits and impersonal letters.
The hurt had lingered for years. But at some point, the bitterness got too heavy. She chose to let go—not for them, but for herself. Living wasn't easy, but she chose to do it anyway.
Outside, the sun dipped into orange as class wrapped up. Aimi dismissed the students with a bow, packed her things, and headed for the showers.
University assignments were waiting.
By the time she arrived at the library, night had fully settled. She pulled out her books and began working, her pen moving steadily through complex chemistry notes. The world narrowed to paper, ink, and the occasional hum of fluorescent lights.
Later, she packed up and headed home. The streets were quiet. The train mostly empty. She walked down her usual residential path, letting her mind wander.
But something was off.
She stopped.
"Okay," she said flatly, not turning around. "You don't plan to leave me alone, do you?"
A voice answered. "So you did notice."
Gojo stepped out casually, not in his usual uniform but in a tracksuit-like one. Blindfold on, hair spiked lazily upward.
How does he even see with that on? she wondered.
"It's you." She had expected someone dangerous—maybe a black-market kidnapper or worse.
Gojo pulled down the blindfold, revealing those glinting blue eyes beneath the streetlight. His hair fell back into its usual disheveled grace. "You look disappointed," he laughed, stepping closer.
"Why are you following me?"
"I saw you this morning and thought I'd check what Aimi-chan does with her day," he said with a smirk.
"This is called stalking."
"I call it following your heart."
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Stop this. What do you want?"
"I want to know more about you," he leaned down slightly, eyes locked on hers.
She scoffed. "For what?"
"I like you."
It wasn't romantic—just matter-of-fact.
"I'm not some science subject to investigate," she growled. "I just want to live my life. So leave me alone, Satoru."
He chuckled. "So you do remember my name."
No one had called him that in years. Suguru had, once. But Aimi had never even asked for his full name.
"I remember everything," she tapped her temple. "I don't top my department for nothing."
"I like this energy coming from you," he rubbed his chin, amused.
"What," she stepped forward and pushed at his chest, "stop looking at me like that."
He had Infinity on—yet her hand passed through it without resistance. His eyes widened.
"…You really are a phenomenon," he murmured.
"You just don't listen." She backed away.
He caught her wrist gently. "Say, Aimi-chan… do you wanna be my friend?"
"No."
"Ouch." He clutched his heart in mock pain.
"If that's all, then we're done." She turned away. "I'm going home."
He followed. Quiet footsteps behind hers.
She gave up trying to shake him. When they reached her place, she unlocked the door, stepped inside—and before she could close it, he slid in behind her, smug as ever.
"Whatever," she muttered.
Her home was modest. Two stories. A living room, small kitchen, two empty bedrooms upstairs. Meant for a family. She lived alone.
Gojo followed, looking around casually.
She went to wash up. When she came back, he was still there—sprawled on her couch, flipping through channels.
"Nice place you've got," he grinned.
"Thanks," she said flatly. She walked to the kitchen. "Tea, coffee, milk, water?" She grabbed a mug.
"Tea. With sugar. Lots."
A few minutes later, she handed him a mug and sat beside him, snatching the remote without a word. She flicked on an anime.
"You like this kind of show?"
"Zip it."
He hummed lazily.
Silence stretched, broken only by the anime's cheerful theme song.
"How long are you planning to stay?"
"I planned to sleep with you."
"My bed doesn't fit you. Neither does my couch."
"Floor works."
"Okay."
"Oh, you've stopped resisting me."
"I don't have energy to waste. Do what you want."
"But—"
His phone buzzed. He sighed. "Where?" he asked into the receiver.
After a moment, he stood up and stretched. "Aimi-chan, I've got work."
"Good for you."
He reached out, patting her head with a grin. "Don't miss me too much."
With that, he slipped out the door. Silence returned.
Aimi exhaled and sank deeper into the couch. She stared at the screen. Her favorite characters filled the room with voices.
Peace, for now.
Scene 2
It was a typical afternoon at university.
Aimi sat in her usual corner of the library, textbooks and notes spread neatly in front of her. Her pen moved steadily through dense chemistry problems.
Then she felt it.
That annoying presence again.
A tall figure approached her table—silver hair, sunglasses, lazy confidence. Gojo Satoru, in full disruption mode.
Whispers followed him like perfume.
"Who's that?"
"Is he a model?"
"Is he even a student?"
Gojo dropped into the seat across from her, removing his glasses with flair.
Aimi didn't even blink. "You're kidding."
She went back to her notes.
"What are you doing here?"
"Visiting."
Her pen paused. "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Not right now."
She tried to ignore him. Tried.
He rested his chin in his palm, just watching her. Occasionally, he'd fiddle with her highlighters or poke her pencil case like a bored child.
"What are you even doing?"
"Looking at you."
And it was true. He'd been watching her all day. She had no cursed energy—none. He'd tested it, subtly, sending little pulses her way. No reaction. No defense.
What would happen if I activated Domain Expansion near her?Would it even work?
She felt soaked in something close to positive energy. Not reversed cursed energy—something else.
It made him curious. Nervous, even.
If the higher-ups knew about her, if cursed spirits caught on—she'd be a target. A walking anomaly. A counter to everything the cursed world relied on.
He didn't speak much. But the fidgeting—tapping, pen-spinning, leaning closer—was loud enough.
"How long are you planning to sit here?"
"Dunno."
"Okay." She groaned quietly, returning to her work.
Eventually, his phone buzzed.
"Work. As usual."
"Good," she said, waving him off. "Go."
Gojo slipped on his glasses again and stood. As he adjusted his coat, he leaned down and gently patted her head.
"Later, Aimi-chan."
She didn't look up, but curiosity stirred. His work didn't feel… normal.
He waved goodbye with his usual cocky grin. She watched him go—just long enough to twitch.