“You’re supposed to knock, brat. You live here.”
Yuji’s throat closed up. He looked around the dusty, moldy, broken-down little apartment. And for the first time since Sukuna had ripped control away from him, since he’d watched Nanami die, since he’d heard Nobara’s scream—he felt a crack in the wall he’d built around his heart.
Yuji spun around. A figure leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Dark hair, tired eyes, a patch over one eye. Satoru Gojo. Home RESULT FOR- JUJUTSU
Gojo stopped. He turned, and for the first time, Yuji saw the exhaustion behind the smile. It was the same exhaustion Yuji felt in his own bones.
He hadn’t been here in months. Not since Shibuya. Not since Sukuna had turned this very city block into a slaughterhouse. The curse had been exorcised, the barriers rebuilt, the dead buried. But some stains, Yuji knew, never washed out. “You’re supposed to knock, brat
No answer.
Now, it felt like a cursed object. Every shadow held a memory. The corner where his grandfather’s oxygen tank used to sit. The scuff mark on the floor from Yuji’s wrestling practice shoes. The faint smell of miso soup, ghosting through the years. And for the first time since Sukuna had
“So are you,” Gojo said, flicking his forehead. “We’ll clean it up. Together.”