The golden haze of late afternoon spilled across the training yard, casting long shadows behind the monster trio as they stood in a loose triangle. Kishibe stood opposite Gojo and Geto, arms crossed, the dull glint of his blade sheathed at his side.
"You two got lazy," he said flatly, though his tone carried no malice—just a brutal, sober truth. "You're not gods. Not yet."
Gojo grinned, brushing a hand through his snowy hair. "We're not? That's news to me."
Geto rolled his eyes. "He means your technique's gotten sloppy. Again."
Kishibe tossed him a sideways glance. "Both of yours. You're not unbeatable. Not to curses. Not to sorcerers. Not even to yourselves."
They trained long after the sun dipped below the rooftops. Blades met with the hum of cursed energy, explosions of force rattled the field, but not a word passed between them during the fray. It was a language of grunts, of counters, of testing limits.
Afterward, the trio collapsed onto the stone ledge beside the courtyard.
Geto leaned back, catching his breath. "You've been off today."
"Yeah," Gojo agreed, glancing at Kishibe. "You didn't look like you wanted to kill us this time."
Kishibe didn't respond immediately. Instead, he lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with a hand rough from years of violence. "Some things weigh heavier the older you get."
Geto blinked. "You're barely twenty."
Kishibe smirked. "Still older than either of you."
There was a long silence. Then:
"Hey, Kishibe," Gojo asked suddenly, "why'd you become a sorcerer?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Kishibe exhaled. "Because I was born into hell. Killing curses was the only way I could kill something that deserved it."
That silenced them.
---
The next day, whispers circled the halls. A trio of second-years sat in the corner of the canteen, nudging each other when Kishibe walked in with Geto and Gojo.
"That's him, right?" muttered a girl with pink streaks in her hair.
"The one who was raised by a prostitute? I heard he gutted a cursed womb with his bare hands."
"Didn't he come from outside the clans?" said another. "Not even a sorcerer family."
Utahime, overhearing them, frowned. "You shouldn't gossip about things you don't understand."
"But it's true, isn't it?" one of them pressed.
Utahime hesitated. "Some of it. But none of it explains why he's still standing. Or why Gojo and Geto trust him."
---
Later that evening, Shoko sat alone on the hospital rooftop, flipping through medical charts. Kishibe joined her, silent as ever.
"They're talking about you again," she said.
He didn't respond.
"You could tell them, you know. Answer their questions."
"Why? So they can feel better about their own mess?"
Shoko looked at him, studying the creases around his eyes, the exhaustion etched deep beneath the surface. "Maybe because they want to understand you."
Kishibe stared at the skyline. "Understanding leads to expectations. Expectations lead to disappointment."
She sighed. "You sound like an old man."
He gave her the ghost of a grin. "That's 'cause I've lived like one."
---
The next week, Utahime caught Gojo eavesdropping behind the library shelves.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to find out where Kishibe trained before Jujutsu High. It's like he popped out of the ground, knife in hand."
Utahime sighed. "He didn't have training. He survived. That's it. That's the story."
Gojo narrowed his eyes. "Then how the hell does someone like that end up as part of our trio?"
"Because someone like that knows how to kill. And how not to die. You could learn from that."
---
Later, in the quiet of their shared dorm, Geto sat across from Gojo, tossing a cursed coin between his fingers.
"You think he trusts us?"
Gojo stretched out on the floor. "Kishibe doesn't trust anyone. But he fights like he'd die for us."
Geto nodded slowly. "Maybe that's enough for now."
Outside, Kishibe stood by the window, cigarette lit, listening. He said nothing. But the smallest shift in his stance suggested that maybe, just maybe, he'd heard them.
And maybe, that was enough.