[The black sedan cut through Tokyo traffic at a frankly illegal speed, though the Assistant Manager behind the wheel handled it well enough that nobody died, which was always nice.]

[The city blurred past the windows. Before long, the car pulled up near the upscale hotel listed in the briefing materials as Riko Amanai’s current residence.]

[During the drive, you and Geto had done your best to explain the full situation to Gojo in words he might accept without throwing himself out the window. Assimilation. The Star Plasma Vessel. The death waiting at the end of the escort. The political stakes.]

[By the time you arrived, his handsome face had settled into a look of deep, simmering disgust.]

[Not moral disgust, unfortunately.]

[More like, this job is boring and I hate everyone involved.]

[Clank.]

[Gojo pulled a cold can of cola from a roadside vending machine, popped it open one-handed, and took a long drink.]

["Great. So I get it now. This isn’t some glorious mission where I show off my invincible power. This is daycare." He grimaced. "They want me to play nanny for a kid who’s about to die. For a few days. Wow... thrilling."]

[Geto stood beside him with both hands tucked into his wide sleeves, eyes drifting up toward the lit hotel windows.]

[When he spoke, his voice carried that soft, melancholy tone he used when he was being thoughtful and insufferable at the same time.]

["That’s not fair, Satoru. Try seeing it from her side. Once assimilation happens, every trace of her life as a person disappears. She’ll never see her friends again. Never sit in class with them again. If she only has a little time left, letting her spend it on her own wishes is the least the strong can do for the weak."]

[It was kind. It was also very Geto.]

[Compassion delivered from a height. A benevolent hand extended downward.]

[That was when you moved.]

[You had been walking quietly behind them, but your pace suddenly quickened. You cut straight between the two of them, shoulder brushing against Geto’s arm as you passed.]

[Your head was lowered. Hair fell across your eyes.]

["If you really cared about her... if you really thought she deserved pity... then no one should have made this decision for her in the first place."]

[The words came out low, crushed between your teeth.]

[Gojo froze with the cola halfway to his mouth.]

[Geto’s expression locked in place.]

[Both of them stared at your back.]

[In every memory they had of Touma Hayase, you were the steady one. The rational one. Sometimes annoyingly composed, sometimes so calm it made people wonder if you had skipped being a teenager entirely.]

[Neither of them had ever heard that voice from you.]

[Not once.]

[It was not irritation. It was not pity. It was not even anger in the usual sense.]

[It sounded like hatred that had been sitting quietly in the dark for a very long time.]

[Gojo could not let it pass.]

[He set the cola down, reached out, and grabbed your shoulder hard.]

["Touma."]

[His pale blue eyes fixed on the back of your head through his sunglasses. His voice had lost its usual careless edge.]

["What did you just say?"]

[His hand pressed into your shoulder.]

[In the sliver of time before you turned around, you activated a card without hesitation. Life is Like a Play. Half a second was enough.]

[Facial muscles. Breathing. Eye focus. Tiny shifts in posture. Every micro-expression rebuilt from nothing, smoothed over, dressed up, and placed exactly where it needed to be.]

[By the time Gojo’s grip pulled you into a half-turn, your face was already finished.]

[A smile met them.]

[So perfectly ordinary it was almost offensive.]

[The cold fury from a moment ago vanished so cleanly it might as well have been a trick of the light. Your eyes even carried a little harmless confusion, the kind a normal person wore when their friends suddenly started acting strange.]

["Hm? What’s wrong, Satoru?"]

[Your voice was light. Almost playful.]

[The silence that followed was awful.]

[Under Life is Like a Play, your expression was flawless. Not merely convincing. It was flawless. Every breath, blink, and twitch matched the role you had chosen.]

[There was no crack. No wrong note. Nothing to point at and say, there, that’s the lie.]

[And that was exactly the problem.]

[Gojo had the Six Eyes. He could read Cursed Energy with absurd precision. Geto’s instincts were honed sharp enough to catch danger before it showed its face.]

[Neither of them could prove anything.]

[But both of them felt it.]

[That smile was too perfect.]

[Geto’s lips parted. His gaze moved over your face, searching for an angle, a weakness, anything. He wanted to ask what had just happened. Wanted to dig into whatever had surfaced from you for that one ugly second.]

[But how was he supposed to question a face that looked exactly like nothing was wrong?]

[You took the opening before either of them could find their footing.]

[With another harmless smile, you pointed toward the hotel entrance.]

["It’s nothing. I was just thinking this whole process is way too complicated." Your tone turned casual, easy. "Since neither of you big shots wants to play babysitter, how about I go up alone and bring our precious Star Plasma Vessel down myself?"]

[You tilted your head slightly.]

[The smile widened.]

["You wouldn’t mind giving me a chance to show off, would you?"]

[In your pocket, your phone screen still glowed faintly.]

[On it was the bounty notice Shiu Kong had posted at your instruction.]

[The Star Plasma Vessel contract.]

[Complete with the exact location of this hotel.] 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

[You didn’t acknowledge the searching gazes boring into your back from Gojo and Geto. You turned, walked through the hotel lobby’s glass doors alone, and sealed the stifling heat and noise of the street behind you.]

[Your stride was steady, unhesitating, carrying you straight toward the private elevator that serviced the twentieth floor where Riko Amanai was staying.]

[Plush carpet swallowed your footsteps, but it couldn’t muffle the cold spreading through the deeper chambers of your mind.]

[Ding.]

[The elevator doors parted. The metal compartment beyond was not empty.]

[A man stood inside. Mid-fifties, maybe. A rumpled gray suit hung on a frame that was neither tall nor imposing, thickening slightly around the middle. His face was the definition of forgettable, the kind that dissolved into a crowd the instant you looked away.]

[You stepped in without expression. The moment you turned to face forward, you caught it: the fractional contraction of his pupils as his gaze, deceptively clouded, swept across the unmistakable black uniform of Tokyo Jujutsu High. His breathing hitched for a sliver of a second.]

[Behind your own eyes, a faint light sparked. Phantom Night Parade unfurled like invisible sonar, scanning the space in silence.]

[The feedback was unambiguous. Cursed Energy flowed through his body. An Innate Technique was carved into his circuits.]

[Your mind processed at machine speed. This intersection of variables, a man with Cursed Energy and an Innate Technique, present in the Star Plasma Vessel’s dedicated elevator at this precise moment, unregistered with any branch of the administration or Jujutsu High... even if he was an unknown quantity who’d never appeared in any of your countless prior simulations, the conclusion was absolute. He was a Curse User. Here for the bounty.]

[The doors sealed shut. The elevator began its ascent, and the faint pull of gravity shifted beneath your feet.]

[You stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped space, less than a meter apart. Your hands hung loose at your sides. Your gaze rested on the polished metal of the elevator doors, mirrored enough to reflect both your own expressionless face and, with perfect clarity, the hand beneath his suit jacket that was slowly curling into a claw.]

["How many people have you killed?"]

[Not loud. But in this sealed box, the question landed like a blade on stone.]

[The man in the reflection didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head. His eyes stayed fixed on the climbing floor numbers, and when he spoke, it was with the flat disinterest of someone discussing the weather. The tone of a man to whom life held no particular value.]

["Ha... What are you babbling about, kid? Who bothers keeping count of something like that? That’s like asking how many slices of bread you’ve eaten..."]

[A textbook answer. The kind only a career killer would give.]

[No anger stirred behind your dark eyes. If anything, a tension you’d been carrying seemed to drain from your shoulders. Confirmed what needed confirming. A long, slow breath pushed the stale air from your lungs.]

[Your head dipped. The words that followed were barely a murmur, meant for no one but yourself.]

["How fortunate..."]

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