The sound of rain is real this time.
Not the copy-and-paste drizzle that the loop recycled every morning, but uneven drops drumming against the eaves, sliding down the glass in crooked trails. Gojo lies still and listens, half afraid to breathe in case the day decides to vanish again.
No alarm.
No reset.
Just rain.
He turns his head. Mukuro is curled beside him, tail flicking lazily, purring like an old machine. The cat's eyes blink open—ordinary green now, not the loop's electric blue. Gojo exhales a laugh. "Morning, partner. We made it."
He reaches for his phone. The screen wakes, sluggish, showing a new date:
TUE 07:16 A.M.
For a long moment he just stares. The word Tuesday feels heavy, miraculous, like something fragile he might break by saying aloud.
Then the device buzzes—one unread message from Rin.
Still here. Meet at the lab. Something's off.
Gojo smiles crookedly. "Something's always off."
The Day That Moves Sideways
Campus looks different under rain. The usual paths glisten; the trees lean with water weight. But it isn't just weather—the whole geometry feels tilted, as if someone rearranged the buildings overnight and hoped no one would notice.
He passes a stairwell that should lead to the library but opens onto the courtyard instead. The clocktower bell tolls eight minutes early. A row of vending machines hum in a different order—green, blue, red instead of blue, red, green.
The world is still looping, but imperfectly. Like a record skipping forward and back.
Rin waits outside the data lab, umbrella dripping. Her hair is damp at the tips; the charm he gave her glows faintly through her coat pocket.
"You see it too?" she asks as he approaches.
"Unless you've redecorated the campus without telling me, yeah."
She leads him inside. The air smells of ozone and wet paper. On the central monitor, lines of text crawl across a document labeled Loop Log 02.
"I didn't type that," she says.
Gojo leans closer. The log is updating itself, each line stamped with the current time.
07:58 – Rain begins.
08:02 – Gojo arrives.
08:03 – Conversation recorded.
08:04 – Energy spike predicted.
He glances at the wall clock. 08:03.
A faint vibration trembles through the floorboards. The light fixtures flicker. Then, exactly on schedule, a pulse of blue light ripples outward from the monitor, gentle but unmistakable.
Rin swears softly. "It's predicting the distortions now."
"Self-aware document. Great." Gojo straightens, pretending cheer. "Next it'll ask for a salary."
Déjà Vu for Everyone
By midday the rain eases, leaving silver fog. The students chatter outside the classrooms, unaware that the world keeps rearranging beneath their feet. But Gojo notices the small things—Megumi's shoes switching sides, Yuji finishing a sentence he hadn't started.
Shoko corners him near the infirmary. "You look worse than usual," she says, but her eyes are sharp. "Also, I just had the strangest feeling we've talked about this before."
"Maybe we have."
"No, I mean exactly this." She rubs her temples. "I remember you standing there, the cat jumping off the counter—" She stops, blinking. Mukuro has just leapt down from the counter.
"—and then you saying something smug," she finishes.
Gojo spreads his hands. "Can't argue with prophetic accuracy."
She sighs. "If this is your fault again—"
"Probably," he says, and slips away before she can throw something.
The loops are leaking. Whatever barrier had contained them is fraying at the edges, memory bleeding into ordinary time.
Echo Mission
By afternoon, a call comes from the city: residual curse energy detected near an abandoned subway entrance. Gojo takes Rin with him—he doesn't trust the day not to fold in his absence.
The air underground smells of iron and dust. Neon graffiti glows faintly on the tiles; puddles mirror the tunnel lights. Mukuro pads ahead, tail high.
Rin holds a handheld detector. "Reading's faint. Could be leftover from a low-grade curse."
Gojo shakes his head. "No. Listen."
A rhythmic thrum pulses through the tunnel—steady, familiar. The same frequency as the loop's resets. The sound of time catching its breath.
They round a corner and find it: a distortion hanging in the air like liquid glass. Shapes flicker inside—reflections of yesterday's Monday layered over today's Tuesday. Gojo sees himself teaching, the trio sparring, Rin standing by the fence—all looping within the shimmer.
"It's not a curse," Rin whispers. "It's memory made solid."
Gojo extends a hand. Infinity ripples outward, touching the distortion. It shivers violently.
"Careful—" Rin begins, but too late.
The echo bursts, flooding the tunnel with light. For an instant the world splits: two versions of the tunnel overlapping—one dry, one drowned. Gojo feels water rush around his ankles that isn't there. He grabs Rin's shoulder, grounding them both until the vision collapses.
When the light fades, the tunnel is quiet again.
Rin exhales shakily. "You just exorcised yesterday."
He smirks, but there's worry beneath it. "Guess time needed cleansing too."
Half a Tuesday
Back on campus, the geometry has worsened. Half the main hall now mirrors Monday's architecture: banners from an event that never happened, classrooms duplicated side by side. Students walk through the wrong doors and emerge elsewhere.
Rin surveys the mess from a balcony. "The timeline's splicing. Tuesday's bleeding into Monday."
Gojo folds his arms. "So we traded a loop for a mosaic."
"Stop joking."
"I'm coping."
She glares, but her voice softens. "We need a stabilizer—something that tells the day which version is real."
He glances at her pocket where the charm glows faintly. "You already have one."
Rin blinks. "You mean the anchor sigil?"
"Not just the symbol." He taps his chest. "The connection. My energy's still linked to yours. We can broadcast a constant."
She hesitates. "That could drain you."
He smiles faintly. "I've been drained before."
They descend into the courtyard. The air warps—half sunlight, half fluorescent Monday hue. Gojo kneels, pressing his palm to the stones; Rin mirrors him, completing the circle. Their joined energy spreads outward, a calm heartbeat through the chaos.
The distortions quiver. Buildings settle into single outlines, banners dissolve, sound normalizes. The pulse steadies.
For a breathless minute everything holds.
Then, silence. Real silence.
Rin slumps back, exhausted. "Did it work?"
Gojo looks up at the sky—clear blue without seams. "Feels like Tuesday again."
Mukuro appears from nowhere, shaking rain from its fur, unimpressed by heroics. The sight makes them both laugh—first tired, then genuine.
Marks and Meanings
They sit on the steps afterward, watching clouds drift.
Rin rolls up her sleeve to wipe sweat—and freezes. A thin blue line runs along her forearm, glowing faintly beneath the skin: the exact sigil they drew in the binding ritual.
"Gojo." Her voice wavers. "It's permanent."
He studies it, fascinated. "Looks good on you."
"It means we're still connected."
"Good," he says quietly. "Means I can find you if the days start lying again."
She opens her mouth to reply, but Mukuro interrupts with a sharp meow. The cat's fur stands on end, staring toward the horizon.
Gojo follows its gaze. Far beyond the campus, the skyline flickers—just once, a brief strobe like lightning trapped behind glass.
"Another pulse?" Rin asks.
"Maybe." He stands, stretching. "Or maybe Wednesday knocking on the door."
She rises too, tucking the tablet under her arm. "If it is, we should be ready."
He grins. "After surviving infinite Mondays, what's one unpredictable Tuesday night?"
They start toward the main hall, rain beginning again in slow, honest drops. The air smells clean, new, almost hopeful.
Behind them, the Loop Log on Rin's tablet refreshes one last time.
Entry Complete — Tuesday Stabilized (Partial)
Next predicted event: Between-Day Phase 00:01 a.m.
Neither of them sees it.