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CHAPTER 1O ━━━ look both ways before you cross!

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Already two long months had passed since you had opened for the very first time, in your five years in this world, the journals of The First, and during all that time, you had read absolutely nothing else.

Not a single page beyond the five first volumes, not a single entry, not even a glance at the protective papers that preceded each subsequent book, which you had come to regard as the archival equivalent of taking a deep breath before plunging into ice-cold water — necessary, perhaps, but also a form of procrastination dressed up as preparation.

The books rested on their pedestals in the restricted section, completely intact, their leather spines catching the golden light that filtered through the paper-covered windows each afternoon, just waiting for you to return. You could sometimes feel them waiting for you, when you were lying in your bed at night, staring at your ceiling while sleep refused to come; a soft pressure at the edge of your consciousness, like a hand not quite touching your shoulder, like a voice you couldn't quite hear, like the memory of words you hadn't read yet pressing against the inside of your skull.

I know, you would think, turning over in your ridiculously comfortable bed, punching your ridiculously soft pillow into a different shape. I know you're there. I know I need to read you. I just… can't. Not yet. Not right now.

But you simply could not read.

Not because you didn't want to — don't misunderstand, you wanted to desperately, with a hunger that genuinely surprised you every time you thought about it. The words you had read of The First had slipped under your skin in a way you had not anticipated at all, settling into your chest like small stones that shifted with every breath you took, with every beat of your heart, with every moment that passed between then and now.

You wanted to know what happened next.

You wanted to follow the thread of The First's life, from that lonely, perceptive child who saw threads and architecture and the sky looking back, to whatever he had become by the final volume — the seventeenth, the one that had been sealed with techniques that no one in the clan had been able to replicate since. You sincerely wanted to understand. You wanted to absorb every single word, every single observation, every single piece of hard-won wisdom that had been preserved across centuries specifically for someone like you.

But… there was simply no time.

The mornings belonged to Satoru.

That hadn't changed, except that Satoru had started holding back even less as your small body grew more and more stronger and your techniques more and more refined. The gap between you was still enormous, still laughably wide, but it was shrinking. Slowly, incrementally, almost imperceptibly. And as it shrank, Satoru adjusted.

Your training sessions had become so brutal that you could barely crawl back to the Okada clan estate afterwards, your Golden Blood drying on your skin in thin, flaking lines, your poor muscles screaming protests that your mind completely ignored because acknowledging the pain would mean admitting just how much it hurt, and admitting how much it hurt would mean acknowledging that you might have reached your limit, and you had learned — the hard way, the only way you ever seemed to learn anything — that your limits were further than you thought.

Satoru would then sit on your tree trunk, eating mochi and offering commentary that was half critique and half affectionate mockery, his legs swinging idly, his sunglasses pushed up into his white hair. And you would lie in the grass, staring at the sky through the leaves — carefully, always carefully, remembering Entry 12 and the sky that looked back — and feel, against all logic, a sense of contentment that you couldn't quite explain.

"You're getting faster," Satoru said one morning, tossing an empty mochi wrapper at your prone form. It landed on your stomach, crinkled and pink. "Still slow. But faster."

"That's… the nicest thing… you've ever said to me," you gasped between breaths, your chest heaving, your vision swimming slightly at the edges.

"It's also the truth. Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. It's already there, living rent-free."

Satoru snorted — an undignified sound that didn't match his carefully cultivated image at all — and threw another wrapper. This one bounced off your forehead and landed in the grass next to your ear.

"You're weird when you're exhausted."

"That's not true. I'm always weird. Exhaustion just makes me honest about it."

"Honest Y/N is my favorite Y/N."

"Honest Y/N is currently regretting every life choice that led to this moment."

"But you're not stopping."

It wasn't a question. Satoru's voice was casual, almost lazy so, but there was still something underneath it — something that sounded like curiosity, or maybe just the kind of observation that came from knowing someone well enough to hear what they weren't saying out loud.

You stared at the sky through the leaves.

"No," you said finally. "I'm not stopping."

"Why?"

The question hung in the air between you, simple and complicated all at once. You could have given a dozen answers — because you wanted to be stronger, because you needed to protect your friends, because the future was coming and you weren't ready — but none of them felt quite right.

Instead, you said;

"Because you're not stopping either."

Satoru was quiet for a moment, and then, so softly that you almost missed it; "No. I'm not."

You lay there in comfortable silence, the morning light filtering through the leaves, the stream babbling its endless babble, and you thought that this — this moment, right here, with Satoru's quiet presence and the grass tickling your neck and the taste of mochi still lingering on your tongue — was worth all the broken bones in the world.

The afternoons belonged to the Okada clan.

Your grandfather, whether out of genuine necessity or mere subtle sabotage (you still didn't know which, and you suspected you might never really know) had suddenly started entrusting you with responsibilities.

Small at first, almost token gestures designed to make you feel important without actually giving you anything meaningful to do. You merely had to observe training sessions and report back on what you saw, to review reports from the clan's various outposts and initial them with your seal, to attend meetings where the elders would talk in circles for hours and hours without ever reaching conclusions that couldn't have been reached in twenty minutes if anyone had been willing to be direct.

But as the days passed, these responsibilities multiplied and grew, creeping into every corner of your schedule like ivy overtaking a wall, until you found yourself with a busier calendar than most adult sorcerers you knew.

"You are the clan heir," your grandfather had said, without any malice, when you had mentioned — casually, you had thought, even if your desperation might have shown through in the way your voice cracked slightly on the word 'archives' — that you hadn't had any time to visit the archives recently. "These are things you must learn, Y/N. The clan doesn't run itself. One day, it will be yours to lead. You cannot lead what you don't understand."

"Yes, I know, but The First's writings—"

"The First's writings will still be there when you have time."

Your grandfather's brown eyes were so calm, so warm, and so absolutely inflexible. There was no cruelty in them, no desire to punish or obstruct, simply the quiet certainty of an old man who had made his decision and wasn't going to be swayed by a five-year-old's impatience, no matter how justified that impatience might be.

He's not wrong, you had thought, frustration curdling in your stomach. The books will still be there. They've been there for centuries. They can wait a few more weeks.

But I don't want to wait.

I've been waiting my whole life — both of my lives — for something to make sense. And those books… those books might be the closest I ever get to understanding what I am.

I don't want to wait anymore.

You had wanted to argue. God, you had so wanted to point out that the whole point of the reading condition was to read, not to spend your days in meetings that could have been emails, not to endure endless lessons on Okada clan history that you could have absorbed in a fraction of the time from a book, not to smile and nod and play the role of the perfect little heir while the books gathered dust in the archive building.

But you had seen something in your grandfather's expression — something that might have been worry, or perhaps even hope, or perhaps just the desperate desire to keep you close just a little while longer — and the argument had died in your throat, unspoken and unresolved.

Grandpa is scared, you had realized, and the realization had made your chest ache. Grandpa is just scared of losing me. Not to death — he doesn't know about that — but to the world. To the school. To the future that's waiting for me outside these walls.

He's trying to hold on.

And I'm trying to let go.

We're both trying to protect ourselves, and we're both failing, and neither of us knows how to stop.

So you attended the meetings, you reviewed the reports, and you observed the training sessions and offered your observations — carefully, always carefully, remembering The First's warning about people who probably don't want to know the truth about themselves. You smiled at the elders and bowed to visiting dignitaries and played the role of the perfect precious heir with a skill that sometimes frightened you, because it was becoming harder and harder to tell where the performance ended and you began.

And at night, when the estate was quiet and your body was sore from training and your mind was too tired to sleep but too restless to rest, you would lie in your ridiculously comfortable bed and think of The First.

You thought about the threads — golden and structural, connecting everything to everything else. You thought about the sky that looked back, about the weight of being perceived by something vast and ancient and utterly indifferent. You thought about how observation could become participation, how looking at something could change it, how seeing a weakness could make it worse.

You thought about a boy who had been so lonely he had forgotten what it felt like to simply live a moment, and who had written it all down in notebooks that had survived for centuries, waiting for someone like you to read them.

Yes, you would think, staring at your white ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the clan settling in for the night. I really have to go back.

Soon.

Not tomorrow — tomorrow is training, and after that there's a meeting with the eastern outpost representatives, and after that Grandfather wants me to observe the younger students' advancement examinations.

But soon.

Maybe next week.

Maybe—

The thoughts would endlessly spiral, and sleep would eventually claim you, and another day would pass without you opening Volume Six.

But today was different.

Today, you had made a decision.

You scaled the Eastern Wall before dawn, the stones cold beneath your fingers and your breath forming clouds in front of your face with every exhale. The sky was still dark, stars scattered across it like scattered diamonds, and the Moon — a thin crescent, hanging low on the horizon — cast just enough light for you to see where you were placing your feet.

You jumped into the forest, landing softly on the familiar path, and made your way to the clearing.

The clearing was quiet at this hour — quieter than it would be later, when the birds started singing and the Sun started warming the grass. The stream babbled softly, barely audible, and the trees creaked in the cold morning breeze, their bare branches reaching toward the sky like fingers.

And Satoru was already there, completely sprawled against your tree with a half-eaten onigiri in his hand and his dark sunglasses pushed up into his hair, which caught the faint starlight and seemed to glow with its own soft radiance. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and steady, and for a moment — just a little moment — you thought the teenager had actually fallen asleep.

Satoru looked so peaceful like this.

The sharp edges of his personality softened, the constant performance set aside, the weight of being the strongest temporarily forgotten. He was just a boy, fifteen years old, sitting against a tree in the dark, waiting for his friend.

He waited for me, you thought, and the thought made something warm bloom in your small chest. He always waits for me. Even when it's cold. Even when it's early. Even when I don't ask him to.

Satoru just… shows up, every day, without fail.

Simply because he said he would.

"You're thinking too loud," Satoru said without bothering to open his eyes. His voice was slightly rough with sleep, but there was amusement underneath it, the kind that came from knowing someone well enough to tease them.

"I'm not thinking at all."

"Liar."

You settled quietly onto the tree trunk, your small legs dangling, your hands in your pockets, and pulled out a packet of mochi that you'd grabbed from the kitchen before leaving the clan estate. The plastic crinkled in the silence, loud and cheerful, and Satoru's eyes opened immediately at the familiar sound, tracking the movement with the kind of focus most people reserve for life-or-death situations.

"You brought snacks?"

"I always bring snacks."

"Today's snacks look particularly snack-like."

"They're mochi. They're the same mochi I bring every single day. The same brand, the same flavor, from the same convenience store, purchased at approximately the same time each morning."

"But today, they're my mochi." Satoru sat up, reaching for the packet with greedy hands that made him look less like the most powerful sorcerer and more like a very tall toddler who had spotted something shiny. "Give me that."

You handed it over and watched the white-haired teenager open the packet with unnecessary violence — ripping the plastic, tearing the seal, scattering a few crumbs on his dark uniform — before stuffing a piece into his mouth and chewing with an expression of intense satisfaction that bordered on religious ecstasy.

"Good?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

"Transcendent," Satoru said around a mouthful of mochi. "These are the best ones. The ones with the red bean filling. How did you know I wanted these specifically?"

"You texted me at 11PM last night. Seven times. All caps. Something about 'red bean or bust' and 'if I don't get red bean mochi tomorrow I will simply perish'."

"…That does sound like something I would do."

"Well, it's something you did do. I have the messages. I can show you."

"No need. I believe you." Satoru ate another piece of mochi, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "So. What's the occasion? You don't usually bring my favorite flavor unless you want something."

You hesitated.

The words you needed to say sat on your tongue, heavy and awkward, and you weren't sure how to arrange them into something that would make sense. You'd been planning this conversation for days — rehearsing it in your head while you sat through meetings, while you reviewed reports, while you lay in bed staring at your ceiling — but now that Satoru was here, looking at you with those too-blue eyes, all your carefully prepared speeches seemed to evaporate.

"We're not training today," you said finally.

Satoru stopped chewing.

His blue eyes — a little darker than usual, because you had noticed that Satoru's eyes were darker when the teenager wasn't actively using Infinity, when he was just being rather than performing — fixed on your face, narrow and assessing. The playfulness that usually lived in his expression disappeared completely, replaced by something sharper, more focused.

"Are you sick?" Satoru asked, and there was genuine concern underneath the casual words. "Did something happen? It's your grandfather, isn't it? Did he—"

"No, Satoru, I'm not sick. And nothing happened." You held up your hands, placating. "I just… need to do something else today. That's all."

"What something else?"

You hesitated again.

You obviously hadn't told Satoru about your plan to find Yuuta and Rika. You hadn't told absolutely anyone — not Suguru, not Shoko, not anyone at all. It seemed far too strange, far too complicated to explain. 'I want to meet those two children because I know, from another life, that one of them will become a special grade sorcerer and the other will become a curse so powerful it terrifies everyone, and I want to be on good terms with them before any of that happens'.

Yeah, you couldn't say that.

But you could say something else.

"There are people I need to meet," you said carefully, your shining gold eyes fixed on the stream rather than on Satoru's face. "Children, about my age. I think… I think it's important that I know them."

Ugh, you berated yourself internally, your cheeks heating. The last part of your sentence wasn't necessary at all, Y/N. You absolute idiot! You could have just said 'there are people I need to meet' and left it at that. But no, you had to add the dramatic 'I think it's important' like you're in some kind of prophecy movie.

Satoru stared at you for a very, very long moment.

The stream babbled, the trees creaked, and somewhere in the distance, a bird — braver than the others, or maybe just more oblivious — finally began to sing, its song bright and cheerful in the cold morning air.

Then, finally, Satoru shrugged, ate another piece of mochi, and said;

"Okay."

You blinked. "Okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Satoru's voice was casual, almost lazy, but there was something underneath — something that might have been understanding, or perhaps just the kind of trust that came from long months of training together, of bleeding together, of falling asleep in each other's company and waking up still there. "You don't have to explain everything to me, Ninie. You have your reasons. I don't need to know them."

"You're not going to ask?"

"Would you tell me if I did?"

You thought about it.

You thought about the lies you would have to weave, the half-truths you would have to tell, the careful omissions you would have to maintain to keep Satoru from asking too many questions. You thought about the weight of secrets — your own and others — pressing against your chest like stones.

"Probably not," you admitted.

"Then what's the point?" Satoru finished the mochi, crumpled the wrapper into a tight ball, and easily threw it at your head with the casual accuracy of someone who had spent months practicing exactly this movement. It bounced off your forehead — right between your eyes — and landed in your lap, crinkled and pink. "Go do your mysterious thing. We'll train twice as hard tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Sunday."

"Sunday is a social construct."

"You're going to make me train on a Sunday?"

"I'm going to make you train every day until you can finally beat me." Satoru smiled a sharp, brilliant smile that showed all his perfectly white teeth and leaned back against the tree, his arms crossed behind his head. "So… forever, probably."

You laughed despite yourself.

The sound surprised you — it was bright and genuine, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep and didn't have to be forced at all. Your small shoulders shook slightly, and Satoru's smile softened into something almost tender, something that looked like it belonged in a different context, on a different face, in a different kind of story.

"Just be careful, Y/N," the teenager said as you stood up and brushed the dirt from your training clothes. The playfulness was gone again, replaced by something heavier. "People are weird. Even children. Especially children, maybe. They say things they don't mean and they're cruel without realizing it and they—"

"Satoru."

Satoru stopped mid-sentence, his mouth still open, his eyes slightly wide.

"Yeah?"

"It'll be fine."

Satoru's jaw tightened — you could see the muscles clenching, you could see the tension gathering in his shoulders — and then, slowly, it relaxed. His breath came out in a long exhale, visible in the cold morning air, and he nodded.

"Yeah," Satoru said, and his voice was softer now, almost reluctant. "It'll be fine."

He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought;

"You're the strongest person I know, Ninie. And I know a lot of strong people."

Your chest did something complicated.

The words settled between your ribs, warm and heavy, and you didn't know what to do with them. You weren't the strongest — you knew that, could feel it in every bruise, every broken bone, every moment when Satoru's attacks came faster than you could dodge. You were strong, maybe, stronger than you had any right to be at five years old, but you weren't the strongest.

And yet.

Satoru said it like it was a fact, like the sky was blue and the stream was wet and Okada Y/N was the strongest person Gojo Satoru had ever met.

Why does he believe that? you wondered. What does he see that I don't?

"I'm not—" you started, but Satoru cut you off.

"You are." Satoru wasn't looking at you anymore; his eyes were fixed on the sky, on the clouds drifting past, on something you couldn't see. "You're the strongest because you keep getting back up. Every time. No matter what." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more thoughtful. "That's what strength is. It's not never falling. It's always getting back up. And you… you get back up more than anyone I've ever met."

You didn't know what to say to that.

Your throat was tight, your eyes were stinging, and something hot and unfamiliar pressed against the back of your eyelids, threatening to spill over, and you blinked rapidly, refusing to let it surface.

I'm not going to cry, you told yourself firmly. I'm not going to cry because Satoru said something kind. That's ridiculous. That's—

But no one has ever said anything like that to me before.

Not in my first life, not in this one.

No one has ever looked at me and seen… that.

"I should go," you said, and your voice came out rougher than you intended. "I have… things. To do. People to meet."

"Yeah." Satoru's smile returned, smaller than before, softer, more real. "Go do your things, Shishi. Meet your people."

You turned around quickly and walked away, toward the Eastern Wall, toward the Okada clan estate, toward the long walk that awaited you.

But Satoru's words followed you, warm and heavy, settling between the spaces of your ribs where hope lived.

You're the strongest person I know.

You keep getting back up.

Every time, no matter what.

Your hand drifted to your chest, pressing against the fabric of your clothes, feeling your heartbeat beneath your palm.

I hope he's right, you thought. I hope I am strong enough for what's coming.

Because something is coming.

I can feel it.

And I don't think I can face it alone.

Finding Yuuta and Rika took you about two hours.

Two hours of walking through neighborhoods that blurred into one another — identical streets lined with even more identical houses, each one differentiated from its neighbors only by the color of the front door or the type of car parked in the driveway or the particular arrangement of potted plants on the porch. Two hours of corner grocery stores on street corners with their faded awnings and hand-painted signs, vending machines humming their silent songs in front of train stations and office buildings, and the occasional vending machine that sold something unexpected, like hot ramen or small toys in plastic capsules that you had been tempted to buy just for the novelty of it.

Two hours of Shinji's teasing echoing in your head, not quite useful but not quite useless either, like a commentary track on a movie you hadn't asked to watch but couldn't turn off.

[ You could just ask the system for their location. ]

Those were the very words Shinji had said about seventeen times already.

'Seventeen' wasn't even an exaggeration, you had actually started counting after the fifth repetition, because that was the kind of petty, detail-oriented person you had become in this new life — someone who kept track of small things to distract yourself from larger ones.

"Nah. That would be cheating if I do," you had replied, about eighteen times; once for each of Shinji's suggestions, plus an extra for good measure, because you were nothing if not consistent.

[ How is using the resources at your disposal cheating? ]

"Because I want to find them myself." You kicked a small stone on the sidewalk, watching it skitter across the concrete and disappear into a gutter. "Because it feels more… real."

[ More real? ]

"You know…" You gestured vaguely with one hand, trying to capture a concept that didn't quite fit into words. "More like I earned it? Like I actually put in the effort instead of just… having the answer handed to me."

[ That's not how effort works. Effort is about the work itself, not about artificially limiting your tools. ]

"Maybe." You turned a corner, following a street that looked slightly less familiar than the one before it, your small legs carrying you forward with the kind of stubborn determination that had become your signature. "But I'm doing it this way anyway."

[ Because you're stubborn. ]

"Because I'm principled."

[ Those aren't the same thing. ]

"They are when I say they are."

Shinji had been quiet after that, and you had continued to walk calmly, your little feet carrying you through streets you had never seen before, past houses where you had never set foot, beneath power lines that buzzed with electricity and the faint resistance of curses you had learned to ignore — the same way you learn to ignore the hum of a refrigerator, always there, but faded into the background of your awareness until something draws your attention back to it.

The neighborhoods changed as you walked.

The houses grew older, smaller, closer together. The cars parked along the streets were less expensive, more worn. The vending machines were older models, their paint faded, their selections more limited. You passed a small shrine tucked between two buildings, its torii gate worn smooth by weather and time, and the young boy paused for a small moment, pressing his hands together in a gesture that felt both foreign and familiar.

I don't know what I'm doing, you thought, looking up at the weathered stone. I don't know if I'm supposed to pray to you or if you're even listening. But… if you are… just please let me find them.

Please let me get there in time.

Please let me be enough.

You weren't sure who you were praying to — the Gods of this world, the ancestors whose paintings lined the halls of the Okada compound, or just the vast, indifferent universe that had somehow, inexplicably, decided to give you a second chance. But the words felt important, so you said them anyway, and then you kept walking.

You found the two children in the seventh park.

Seven parks. You had checked seven parks in two hours, walking from one to the next with the kind of single-minded focus that made other pedestrians step aside without quite knowing why. Seven parks with their swings and slides and sandboxes, their patches of grass worn thin by countless small feet, their benches occupied by parents scrolling through phones or reading books or simply staring into space while their children played.

The first park had been empty, save for a single mother pushing a stroller back and forth along the walking path, her face tired and distant.

The second park had been occupied by a group of older children, maybe eight or nine years old, who had looked at you with narrowed eyes and whispered among themselves until you had walked away.

The third park only had a dog — a large and friendly golden retriever that had instantly bounded up to you with its tail wagging, and you had spent five minutes petting it before continuing on your way because, well, it was a golden retriever, and you weren't made of stone.

The fourth and fifth parks had been empty.

The sixth park had been closed for renovations, surrounded by orange mesh fencing and signs that said things like 'DANGER' and 'KEEP OUT' in bold red letters.

And then—

The seventh park.

It was small, nestled between two apartment buildings, the kind of place that probably got sunlight for maybe three hours a day and spent the rest in shadow, the buildings blocking the Sun's path across the sky. The playground equipment was old but well-maintained — a slide with faded red plastic that had been patched in several places, swings that creaked when you used them (you could hear them creaking from the sidewalk), a sandbox that had probably been cleaned recently given the absence of animal tracks or discarded trash.

And there, on the swings, were two children.

You stopped at the edge of the park, your heart suddenly pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat, your palms suddenly damp despite the coolness of the evening.

There they are.

There they are, there they are, there they are—

The girl was older, maybe six or seven, with beautiful long black hair tied in a ponytail that swished when she moved and a yellow dress that seemed too bright for the overcast sky, like a small piece of sunshine had decided to take human form and sit on a swing. She was pushing herself lazily, her feet dragging in the dust, not really trying to go higher. Her eyes were fixed on the other child — a boy, smaller, sitting on the swing next to her, his hands gripping the chains so tightly his knuckles were white.

Okkotsu Yuuta.

Even from a distance, even at five years old, even with only the vague memories of panels and anime and fan art to guide you, you recognized him.

The dark hair, soft and slightly disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look like he'd just woken up. The impossibly soft features — the kind of face that made you want to protect him, even if you didn't know why. The way he held himself, shoulders hunched slightly, knees pressed together, as if he expected to be told he was doing something wrong at any moment and wanted to make himself as small as possible for when the criticism came.

Yuuta was only four years old — just one year younger than your current body, although you seemed to be a bit taller than him in stature, maybe from better nutrition or better genes or just the random luck of genetics — and he was so painfully, heartbreakingly small.

Oh my God, you thought, and something in your chest cracked — it was a soundless, invisible fracture that spread through your ribs like ice forming on a winter pond. Oh my God, he's just a baby.

They're both just babies.

And I know what's going to happen to them.

I know what's going to take her away and what's going to be left behind and how much it's going to hurt, and I can't—

You took a breath, then another.

Then a third, for good measure, because apparently you really needed to stockpile oxygen like a camel preparing for a desert crossing.

You knew this, intellectually.

You had known it before you left the Okada compound this morning, before you started walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods, before you checked park after park after park. Yuuta was only four years old in the current timeline, still far from the events that would define his life, still far from Rika's death and the curse and the crushing weight of being special in a world that ate special people alive.

But knowing something intellectually and seeing it with your own eyes were two very different things.

And seeing Yuuta right now — the small boy sitting on a swing, holding the chains too tightly, his small chest rising and falling with each breath — brought home the reality of the situation in a way that no amount of planning or preparation could have prepared you for.

He's just a child, you thought. They're both just children. Yuuta should be worried about homework and bedtime and whether he'll get the toy he wants for his birthday. Not about curses. Not about death. Not about any of the things that are coming for them.

But they will be soon.

And I—

I can't stop it. I can't save her. I can only… be there for him, after everything.

If he'll let me.

"Shinji," you whispered, your voice barely audible even to your own ears. "I think I'm going to be sick."

[ You're not going to be sick. ]

Shinji's voice was soft, almost gentle, the way it got when you were spiraling and needed someone to pull you back to solid ground.

[ You're going to go over there and introduce yourself like a normal person. ]

"Ugh, but I'm not a normal person."

[ Then pretend. ]

[ You're good at pretending. ]

You almost laughed at that, at the absurdity of it, at the truth of it, at the way Shinji could say something that was both a compliment and an indictment at the same time.

Yeah, you thought. I am good at pretending, aren't I?

I've been pretending my whole life.

Pretending to be someone I'm not.

Pretending to feel things I don't.

Pretending not to feel things I do.

Pretending to be a child when I'm not, pretending to be an adult when I was, pretending to be normal when I've never been anything close to normal in either of my lives.

Pretending is what I do.

It's who I am.

Might as well put it to good use.

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and finally stepped forward.

The girl noticed you first.

Rika's head turned when you approached, her brown eyes sharp and assessing in a way that vaguely reminded you of Shoko — that same watchfulness, that same careful evaluation, that same sense that she was cataloging everything about you and filing it away for future reference. She didn't smile immediately, she didn't frown either, she simply watched you come over with the patient stillness of someone who had learned not to trust strangers, not because she had been hurt by them, but because she was smart enough to know that trust should be earned.

"Hi," you said, stopping a few meters away — close enough to be friendly, far enough to not seem threatening, a distance you had learned through trial and error during months of meeting new people at Jujutsu High.

You shoved your hands in your pockets, trying your best to look casual, trying to look like a normal five-year-old child approaching other children on a playground, and not like a reincarnated adult with the weight of two lifetimes pressing down on your small shoulders.

"My name is Y/N. I'm new here."

It wasn't technically a lie.

You were new here — new to this neighborhood, new to this park, new to the particular configuration of apartment buildings and corner stores and vending machines that made up this small slice of the city. And you were new to them, to Yuuta and Rika, to the particular dynamic that existed between the two of them that you could already see, even from a few meters away, was something special.

Rika's eyes flicked to Yuuta — it was a quick and protective glance, checking on him, making sure he was okay — before returning to you.

"My name is Rika," she said finally, her voice softening slightly, the wariness in her expression easing by just a fraction. "And this is Yuuta."

Yuuta didn't say anything.

The little boy was staring at you with big, dark, shy eyes — the kind of eyes that seemed to take up half his face, that made him look perpetually on the verge of tears even when he wasn't sad. His mouth was slightly open, his small hands still gripping the swing chains as if they were the only things keeping him grounded, as if letting go would cause him to float away into the sky and never come back.

Up close, Yuuta was even smaller than you had thought.

He was so delicate, with such a fragile quality — thin wrists, pale skin, a slightness to his frame that suggested he didn't eat enough or maybe just had a fast metabolism — that it made you suddenly want to wrap him in blankets and hide him somewhere safe forever, somewhere the curses couldn't find him, somewhere the world couldn't hurt him.

This is the boy who's going to carry the strongest curse in history, you thought, and the idea seemed so absurd, so impossible, that you almost laughed. This tiny, shy, fragile-looking child is going to become a special grade sorcerer.

This is the boy I came to find.

This is the boy I'm going to—

"Hi, Yuuta," you said, more softly, lowering yourself slightly so that you were closer to Yuuta's eye level.

The gesture was automatic, something you had learned from interacting with children in your first life, a way of making them feel less intimidated, more comfortable, and it seemed to work, because Yuuta's shoulders relaxed just a fraction.

Yuuta's lips moved, but no sound came out.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, and his cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, and you felt your heart crack a little more.

"He's very shy," Rika said, and there was something in her voice — protectiveness, perhaps, or simply the kind of fierce love that only children seemed capable of expressing without irony or self-consciousness. "He doesn't talk much to people he doesn't know."

"That's okay," you said, and you meant it. "I don't talk much either. Usually."

Well, you thought, as soon as the words left your mouth. That's a lie.

I talk a lot. Constantly, almost. Especially when I'm with Satoru or Suguru or anyone who makes me feel comfortable enough to stop performing.

But they don't need to know that.

Rika didn't call you on it.

The girl just nodded, as if that made sense, as if she understood something about you that you hadn't said, as if she could see past the performance to the person underneath. Or maybe she couldn't, and she was just being polite, and you were projecting because you wanted to believe that someone so young could see you clearly.

"You can sit with us," she said, gesturing to the swing next to Yuuta's. "If you want."

You sat down.

The swing was cold against your pants, the chains rough against your palms, the metal cold enough to make you shiver slightly. You pushed yourself gently, just enough to sway, but not enough to really fly — the way you swing when you're not really swinging, just moving back and forth because it feels better than sitting still.

You let yourself look at the playground without looking at the two children next to you.

The slide, red and faded, with patches of newer plastic where it had been repaired. The sandbox, its wooden borders worn smooth by weather and time, the sand within a pale beige that had probably been brighter once. The small patch of grass that was more brown than green, worn thin by countless feet running back and forth. The bench near the entrance, occupied by an old man reading a newspaper, paying you no attention.

The buildings on either side, their windows reflecting the overcast sky, their laundry lines strung between them like clotheslines in an old photograph. The smell of someone's cooking drifting from an open window; something savory, maybe curry, or something else, warm and comforting and completely out of place in the cool evening air.

I want to remember this, you thought. I want to remember every single detail. The creak of the swings. The smell of the cooking. The way the light looks through the clouds. Because this moment — this ordinary, unremarkable moment — is going to matter.

It's going to matter to Yuuta, someday.

When everything else has been taken from him, when Rika is gone and the curse is all that's left, he's going to remember this afternoon.

Yuuta is going to remember playing in this park with Rika and a strange boy.

And I want to remember it too.

"You have pretty eyes," Yuuta said.

You turned your head toward the boy, surprised.

You hadn't thought about your eyes at all — you hadn't thought about what people might think of them, how they might react, whether they would be scared or awed or simply indifferent. You had been so focused on finding Yuuta and Rika, on getting to this park, on the mission itself, that you had forgotten that your eyes were… noticeable.

Stupid, you berated yourself internally. Of course they're noticeable. They're gold. They literally glow in certain lights. You can't just show up somewhere and expect people not to notice your eyes.

But Yuuta noticed.

And he didn't say words like 'weird' or 'creepy' or 'why are your eyes like that'.

He said 'pretty'.

Yuuta was looking at you now — his dark eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that seemed far too big for his small body, that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his four years of life experience. There was no fear in his expression, no distrust, no hesitation. There was just… curiosity, and something else. Something that might have been wonder, or recognition, or the simple, uncomplicated acceptance of a child who hadn't yet learned to be afraid of things that were different.

"Thank you," you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended, almost a whisper. "Yours are pretty too."

Yuuta blinked.

His dark eyes — impossibly dark, like pools of ink, like the spaces between stars — widened slightly, and then, slowly, shyly, the boy smiled. It was a tiny smile, barely there, the kind of smile you could easily miss if you weren't paying enough attention, the kind of smile that seemed to cost him something to produce, like he wasn't used to smiling and wasn't sure if he was doing it right.

But you were always paying attention.

It was the curse of your eyes — the blessing and the burden, the thing that set you apart from everyone else. You saw the small smile on Yuuta's face, and you saw the way it transformed the boy's entire expression, lighting up his features from within, making him look like someone who had forgotten how to be happy and was now remembering.

And you felt something tighten painfully in your chest.

He is way too cute, you thought, and the thought was so intense, so overwhelming, that you almost couldn't breathe. I'm going to die. I'm really going to die from his cuteness.

[ You can't die. ]

Shinji's soft, amused voice echoed in your mind, and you could practically hear the smirk in it.

Shut up, Shinji.

[ Just stating facts. ]

I said shut up.

Rika watched the exchange with an expression that had shifted from watchful to something almost approving.

She hadn't smiled yet, and you didn't blame her, because after all, you had just met, and you were a complete stranger, and she had no reason to trust you at all, but her shoulders had relaxed considerably, and Rika had now stopped assessing you as a potential threat and started assessing you as… something else. A curiosity, maybe, or a possibility. Someone who might be worth knowing.

"Where do you live?" she asked.

"Far away," you replied, which was true.

The Okada clan's domain was far away from this neighborhood, far away from this park, far away from the ordinary world that most people inhabited. It existed in a different reality almost; one of ancient buildings and political maneuvering and the constant hum of cursed energy that most people never noticed.

"But I'm just passing through. I wanted to see new places."

"That's weird," Rika said, and her voice wasn't unkind, just… direct. The way children often were, before they learned to soften their observations with politeness. "Most kids your age don't visit new places alone."

"I'm not like most kids."

Rika considered this.

Her brown eyes — sharp and assessing, but not unkind — studied your face, your eyes, the way you held yourself. She was trying to figure you out, you could tell. She was trying to decide if you were lying, if you were dangerous, if you were worth the risk of friendship.

Then she simply nodded, as if you had passed a test you didn't know existed.

"Yeah," Rika said, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I can see that."

The three of you sat on the swings for a while after that, not talking much, just… existing, sharing the same space without needing to fill it with words.

You let your gaze wander over the playground — the slide, the sandbox, the small patch of grass — and you tried to memorize every little detail.

The way the light filtered through the buildings, casting long shadows on the ground that shifted slowly as the Sun moved across the sky. The sound of traffic in the distance, muffled and indistinct, a constant background hum that was easy to ignore. The smell of someone's cooking drifting from an open window that made your stomach growl despite the fact that you weren't actually hungry.

The creak of the swings when they moved.

The rustle of the wind through the trees.

The soft sound of Yuuta's breathing, slow and steady, as he sat on his swing and stared at the clouds.

You wanted to remember this.

You wanted to remember Yuuta's small smile, and Rika's watchful but kind eyes, and the way the two of them existed together as if they had always done this — as if they had been sitting on these swings, in this park, for their entire lives, and would continue to sit here for the rest of them.

Because soon — much too soon — everything was going to completely change.

The curse would come, and Rika would become something else, and Yuuta would carry a weight that no child should ever have to bear. The park would still be here, probably. The swings would still creak, the slide would still be red, the sandbox would still be full of sand, but the two children who sat here now, in this moment, would be gone.

Rika would be gone.

And Yuuta would be someone else entirely.

But right now, in this moment, they were just children.

Just two adorable children on a playground, living the ordinary magic of a Saturday afternoon, unaware of the darkness gathering at the edges of their story.

"Do you want to play?" Yuuta asked, pulling you from your deep thoughts.

Yuuta's voice was still quiet, still hesitant, still barely above a whisper. But there was something in it; hope, perhaps, or the kind of hesitant advance of someone who had been hurt multiple times and was trying again anyway, because the alternative — giving up, staying completely silent, never reaching out — was worse.

Your heart clenched.

"Yes," you said, and you smiled — a real smile, not the performance you had been maintaining all afternoon, but something genuine. "I'd like that."

They played on the slide first.

Rika went first, climbing the ladder with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before, her yellow dress flaring out behind her like a flag. She paused at the top, looking down at the boys with a grin that was half excitement and half challenge.

"Watch this!" she called, and then she pushed off.

The girl slid down quickly, her laughter bright and unexpected and loud, echoing through the small park like a bell. Rika landed at the bottom with a thud, her shoes scuffing the dirt, and she immediately got up, brushing the dust from her hands and her yellow dress.

"Your turn, Yuuta!" she called, her smile wide and encouraging.

Yuuta climbed the ladder slowly, his small hands gripping the rungs with white-knuckled intensity, his feet finding each step with meticulous precision. The little boy wasn't like Rika — confident, carefree, unafraid. Yuuta approached the slide the way someone might approach an awfully difficult test, or a scary movie, or any other thing that required courage he wasn't sure he had.

At the top, he stopped.

He sat there, at the edge of the slide, his legs dangling over the side, and stared down at the ground with an expression that was half-excitement and half-terror. His small hands gripped the edges of the slide, his knuckles white, his whole body tense with the effort of not moving.

"You can do it, Yuuta," you encouraged him from behind, your voice soft but firm.

Yuuta glanced back nervously, his big dark eyes wide.

"What if I fall?" he asked, and his voice was so small, so scared, that you felt your heart crack all over again.

"You won't fall."

"But what if I fall?"

You thought for a moment.

You thought of your own body — broken and rebuilt and broken again, over and over, one hundred and sixty-two times now, each death a lesson, each resurrection a promise. You thought of the golden blood, the golden threads, the golden eyes that saw too much and changed what they saw. You thought of the pain — the searing, burning, consuming pain of dying — and how it had become something you could observe rather than feel, something that happened to your body while your mind watched from a distance.

And you thought of Satoru's words, the ones the teenager had spoken that morning, before you had left the clearing.

You're the strongest because you keep getting back up. Every time. No matter what. That's what strength is. It's not never falling. It's always getting back up.

"Then you get back up," you finally said, and you smiled gently, hoping it was reassuring. "And you try again."

Yuuta stared at you for a long moment.

His dark and doe-like eyes searched your face, looking for something — a lie, maybe, or simply a reassurance that he didn't quite believe. And whatever Yuuta found there, whatever he saw in your expression, in your golden eyes, in the small smile that curved your lips, made something shift in his own face.

The fear didn't disappear, exactly, but it changed.

It became something that looked almost like determination, like the decision to be brave even when you didn't feel brave, like the choice to trust even when trust felt dangerous.

And then, finally, Yuuta pushed off.

He slid down the slide, not quickly, not in the same way Rika had, but more slowly, tentatively, his small body tensed for impact, and when he landed at the bottom, Yuuta's little laugh — surprised and delighted and just as bright as Rika's — echoed throughout the playground.

"I did it!" Yuuta said, and his voice was louder now, more certain, filled with a joy that seemed to light him up from the inside. "I did it, Y/N!"

Your chest swelled with something that felt dangerously close to pride.

"Yeah, you did," you said. "Good job, Yuuta."

The three of you played on the swings after that, taking turns pushing each other, seeing who could go the highest.

Rika was competitive — fiercely, delightfully competitive, the kind of competitive that made her push harder, swing higher, laugh louder every single time she surpassed the boys. Her yellow dress flared behind her like a banner, and her ponytail streamed out like a tail, and her smile was so bright, so unguarded, that you had to look away for a moment because it hurt to look at.

She's going to die, you thought, and the thought was cold and sharp and unwelcome. She's going to die, and she's going to become a curse, and Yuuta is going to carry her for the rest of his life, and there's nothing I can do to stop any of it.

But right now—

Right now, she's alive.

Right now, she's laughing.

Right now, she's just a little girl on a swing, enjoying a Saturday afternoon with the little boy she loves the most and a strange boy with golden eyes.

And that has to be enough.

It has to be.

Yuuta was gentler, more cautious, always checking that everyone was okay before letting himself really have fun. Yuuta pushed you on the swing with careful, measured pushes, asking 'is this okay?' and 'does that hurt?' and 'are you sure?' until you wanted to completely wrap him in a warm blanket and never let him go.

"You don't have to be so careful, Yuuta," you said, after Yuuta had asked for the fifth time if he was pushing you too hard. "I'm not made of glass."

Yuuta's brow furrowed.

"But what if I hurt you?"

"You won't hurt me."

"But what if I do?"

You thought about your body again — the way it broke and healed, broke and healed, broke and healed, in an endless cycle that had become as familiar as breathing. You thought about the pain, and how it had stopped meaning anything, and how that was perhaps the saddest thing of all.

"Then I'll be okay," you said. "I promise."

Yuuta looked at you for a long moment, that same searching look, that same attempt to find the truth beneath the words.

And then, slowly, he nodded.

"Okay," Yuuta said. "I trust you."

And you…

You pretended.

You pretended to be a normal five-year-old child, laughing at things that weren't particularly funny, exclaiming over things that didn't really surprise you, letting yourself be pushed, swung, and slid without analyzing the architecture beneath the joy. You pretended that your heart wasn't heavy with the weight of knowing, that your mind wasn't crowded with memories of a future that hadn't happened yet, that your eyes were just eyes and not windows into something deeper and more terrifying.

In all honesty, it was exhausting in a way that training with Satoru wasn't, because at least with Satoru, you could still be yourself — tired, sarcastic, too old for your body and too young for your mind, a strange amalgamation of two lifetimes that didn't quite fit together.

At least with Satoru, you didn't have to perform.

But here, with Yuuta and Rika, you had to play a role.

You had to be a five-year-old child.

You had to be someone they could trust, someone they could play with, someone they could see as a friend rather than a curiosity, a project, a strange boy with strange eyes who appeared out of nowhere and asked strange questions.

You had to be normal.

Or as close to normal as you could manage.

And it was worth it.

Every awkward moment, every forced laugh, every time you caught yourself observing instead of living and had to consciously pull back — it was worth it. Because Yuuta was smiling now, a bright smile that spread across his entire face, that reached his eyes and lit them up from within, and Rika had completely stopped looking at you as a threat and had started looking at you as something else.

A friend, maybe.

Or the potential for one.

"You're really weird," Rika said, after they had collapsed on the grass, out of breath, tired, and happy. The Sun had shifted in the sky, the shadows growing a little longer, the air growing a little cooler, and the three of you lay on your backs staring at the clouds. "But I like you."

"Thank you," you said, because you didn't really know how to respond. "I think."

"It's a compliment."

"It was?"

Rika's lips twitched that almost-smile again, the one that made her look softer, more like the child she was.

"Maybe."

Yuuta was lying on his back, staring at the cloudy sky, his small chest rising and falling with the rhythm of someone who had just run a marathon — or, in his case, someone who had just spent several hours playing on playground equipment for the first time in what was probably a while. His dark hair was spread out on the grass like a little halo, and his eyes — those impossibly soft eyes, dark and deep and full of wonder — were fixed on the clouds drifting past.

"Y/N," Yuuta said, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Yeah?"

"I know I already told you, but…" He turned his head, looking at you with that same intense curiosity from earlier, that same sense that he was trying to figure something out. "Your eyes are really, really beautiful."

You could feel your heart swell in your chest — a physical sensation, almost painful, like your ribs were expanding to make room for something too big to contain.

"Thank you, Yuuta."

"I've never seen eyes like yours before." Yuuta's brow furrowed slightly, like he was searching for the right words. "They're all shiny and gold. Like… like a treasure."

"Like a treasure," you repeated, and your voice sounded strange to you — thick, almost, like there was something caught in your throat.

"Yeah!" Yuuta smiled again; that small, shy smile that transformed his whole face, that made him look like someone who had forgotten how to be happy and was just now remembering. "Like a treasure."

Rika was quiet for a moment, watching the two boys with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.

Affection, maybe. Or amusement. Or simply the quiet satisfaction of seeing Yuuta truly happy.

Then she leaned over and poked Yuuta's cheek.

"You're so weird," she said, but her voice was fond, almost affectionate.

"You're weird too."

"We're all weird," you said, and you meant it more than they would ever know.

The three of you spent the afternoon in that park, moving from the swings to the sandbox to the small patch of grass that was more brown than green, playing and laughing and existing together in the easy way that children had — without agenda, without expectation, without the weight of the world pressing down on their shoulders.

They built sandcastles that collapsed almost immediately, Rika declaring that the sand was 'bad' and Yuuta nodding seriously in agreement, as if this were a matter of great importance. They chased each other around the playground equipment until they were too tired to run, their laughter echoing through the small park like music. They lay on the grass staring at clouds while you pointed out shapes that weren't really there — dragons and rabbits and faces in the clouds — and Rika called you a liar every time.

"You're lying," she said, when you claimed a cloud looked exactly like a dragon. "It's just a cloud."

"All clouds are just clouds. But some clouds are also dragons." You gestured at the sky with one hand, trying to look wise and philosophical. "It's a matter of perspective."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It makes perfect sense. You're just not thinking about it correctly."

Rika rolled her eyes, a gesture so familiar, so reminiscent of the current Shoko, that you almost laughed, but Rika was still smiling, and Yuuta was laughing — a small, joyful sound that squeezed your chest in the best way — and the afternoon light shifted from gold to orange, the Sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon.

They had been here for hours.

You hadn't even noticed.

You had been too busy pretending to be a child, too focused on your role, to realize that at some point, the role had stopped feeling like a role. You had laughed — a real laugh, not the forced laugh you had used all afternoon — when Rika fell face-first into the sandbox, her yellow dress getting covered in sand, her expression one of utter betrayal. And you had felt genuine warmth, not the performance of warmth, but the real thing, when Yuuta carefully grabbed your hand to drag you toward the slide, his small fingers warm and slightly sticky and completely trusting.

When had that happened?

When had you stopped pretending and started just… being?

[ Maybe you're not as different from them as you think. ]

You didn't reply, you really couldn't reply.

Because the Sun was setting, the shadows were growing longer, and Rika was looking at her phone with a displeased expression, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed together in a thin line. And Yuuta's smile — that beautiful, adorable, and fragile smile — was fading into something even more fragile, something that looked almost like sadness.

"We have to go," Rika said, getting up and brushing the grass and sand off her yellow dress with sharp, decisive movements. Her voice was flat, resigned, the voice of someone who had learned that fun things always ended too soon. "We need to be home before it gets dark."

"Oh," Yuuta said, and his voice was so small, so disappointed, that you felt your heart crack yet again.

You stood up too, your legs stiff from sitting too long, your hands cold from the evening air, your body protesting the movement after hours of inactivity. You looked at Yuuta — his dark hair, his soft eyes, the way his hands fidgeted in front of him, twisting together like he didn't know what to do with them — and you felt something twist in your chest.

I don't want to leave, you thought. I don't want to leave them. I don't want to go back to the compound, to the meetings, to the weight of being the heir. I want to stay here, in this park, with these children, and pretend that the future isn't coming.

But I can't.

I have to go.

I have to—

"Can we see you again?" Yuuta asked.

The question was so direct, so hopeful, so completely unexpected, that it caught you completely off guard.

You had expected to have to work a lot for this — to earn the two children's trust over several meetings, to slowly build a relationship that might one day become genuine friendship. You had expected hesitation, suspicion, the kind of guardedness that came from children who had learned that strangers didn't always mean well.

You hadn't expected Yuuta to ask, outright, if they could see each other again.

He already trusts me, you thought, and the realization hit you like a physical blow. After just a few hours, after just one afternoon, he trusts me.

Why?

What did I do to deserve that?

"Yes," you said softly, and your voice came out rougher than you intended. "I'd like that."

Yuuta's smile returned — bright and relieved and so full of hope that it almost hurt to look at.

"Tomorrow?" he asked, his eyes shining with anticipation, his small body practically vibrating with excitement.

"I can't tomorrow." Your heart sank as you said the words, watching Yuuta's smile falter. "But soon. I promise."

Tomorrow is training. Tomorrow is Satoru and the clearing and the brutal, beautiful rhythm of pushing myself past my limits once again.

But after that, I'll come back.

I'll always come back.

"Y/N," Rika said, and her voice was serious in a way that made the young boy pay more attention — her voice was sharp, focused, the voice of someone who was about to ask a question that mattered. "You're not lying, are you? You're really going to come back?"

"I'm really going to come back, Rika."

Rika studied you for a long moment.

Her light brown eyes — sharp and assessing, not unkind but not naive either — searched your face for something. A lie, perhaps, or the first sign of a broken promise, or simply the truth, plain and simple, written in your expression for anyone who knew how to look.

And then, finally, she nodded.

"Okay," she said, and her smile returned, smaller than before, but real. "We'll be there. Same time. Same place."

"I'll find you."

"You found us today."

"That was just luck."

"Then get lucky again, Y/N."

You laughed — a real laugh, surprised by Rika's pragmatic confidence, by the way she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'll try."

Yuuta stepped forward shyly, then stopped just after. His small hands reached out — toward you, toward the space between you — then fell back to his sides, as if he wanted to hug you but wasn't sure if he was allowed.

The hesitation hurt your chest.

Because the boy was so cute — so painfully, heartbreakingly cute — and he clearly wanted connection, wanted touch, wanted to bridge the distance between you, but he didn't know how. He had been hurt before, maybe. Or told no too many times. Or simply learned that reaching out was dangerous, that people didn't always reach back.

I want to hug him, you thought. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything is going to be okay, even though I know it's not, even though I know it's going to get so much worse before it gets better.

But I can't.

"Goodbye, Y/N," Yuuta said, and his voice was small and soft and sad.

"Not goodbye." You shook your head, your voice gentle but firm. "See you later."

Yuuta's eyes widened, and so did his smile — that beautiful, adorable smile that transformed his whole face, that made him look genuinely happy.

"See you later," Yuuta repeated, as if testing the words, as if wanting to make sure they were real.

"See you later," you repeated, and you meant it with every fiber of your being.

Rika gently took Yuuta's hand, her fingers curling around his, and they started walking toward the edge of the park.

You watched them walk away — their small figures shrinking as they headed toward the street, toward the buildings, toward the home that awaited them. Rika's yellow dress was bright against the gray of the evening, a small spot of color in a world that was slowly fading to shadow. Yuuta's dark hair bounced with each step, and his small hand was held tightly in Rika's, and they walked together as if they had always walked together, as if they would always walk together, as if nothing could ever separate them.

But something will, you thought, and the thought was cold and sharp and unwelcome. Something will separate them. Something terrible. Something I can't stop.

And Yuuta will be alone.

For years, he'll be alone.

Until he finds his way to Jujutsu High, until he meets the people who will become his friends, until he learns to carry the weight of what he is.

But I can be there before that.

I can be there now.

I can be his friend.

I can make sure he knows he's not alone.

"Hey!" you suddenly called out, your voice louder than you intended, carrying across the empty park.

The two children turned around.

Rika's expression was curious, slightly confused, and Yuuta's expression was hopeful, his dark eyes wide, his small body already turning back toward you as if he had been waiting for you to call out.

"Don't you guys forget to look both ways before crossing the street, okay?"

Rika rolled her eyes.

"We know how to cross the street."

"Just wanted to make sure."

Yuuta gave a small wave — a tiny, shy gesture, his fingers barely moving, as if he was afraid that waving too enthusiastically would be somehow wrong.

And then finally, the two children were gone, disappearing around the corner, swallowed by the evening shadows.

You stayed in the park for a long time after they left.

The swings creaked softly in the breeze, their chains clinking against the metal frame in a rhythm that was almost musical. The slide cast a long shadow over the sandbox, the red plastic darkening to burgundy in the fading light. The sky above was a breathtaking blend of colors — beautifully pinks and purples and golds and deep blues, layered like the pages of one of The First's journals.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking — a sharp, rhythmic sound that echoed through the quiet neighborhood. And somewhere else, someone was calling their children in for dinner, their voice faint, carrying on the evening air.

Dinner, you thought. I should eat dinner. I should go back to the compound. I should—

You didn't move.

Your legs felt heavy, weighted down by something you couldn't name. Your chest felt tight, constricted, like someone had wrapped a band around it and was slowly pulling it tighter. Your eyes — your stupid, gold, impossible eyes — were burning, and you blinked rapidly, trying to clear them.

[ Y/N? ]

"Yeah?"

[ You're crying. ]

You touched your cheek, surprised.

Your fingers came away wet.

"Oh," you said, and your voice sounded strange to you — distant and disconnected, like it belonged to someone else. "I guess I am."

[ Are you okay? ]

"I… I don't know." You slowly wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, smearing the tears across your skin. "I don't know if I'm okay."

[ Do you want to talk about it? ]

You thought about it.

You thought about Yuuta's smile — small and shy and so, so precious. You thought about Rika's bright laugh, her fierce protectiveness, the way she looked at Yuuta like he was the most important person in the universe. You thought about the two of them together, walking hand in hand toward a future that was going to tear them apart.

You thought about what was coming.

Rika's death. The curse. The years of pain and isolation that awaited Yuuta. The weight he would carry, the guilt he would feel, the loneliness that would consume him.

And you thought about their small size, their fragility, their total unpreparedness for the world that was going to completely eat them alive.

"I can't save everyone," you finally said.

[ No. ]

Shinji's voice was soft, almost gentle, and there was no judgment in it — just acceptance, just the simple acknowledgment of a truth that you already knew.

[ No, you can't. ]

"I can't stop what's going to happen to them."

[ No. ]

"But I can be there." Your voice broke on the last word, cracking like ice under pressure. "I can be there, now, while there's still time. I can be their friend. I can make sure they know—" You stopped, swallowed, then started again, your voice quieter now, more vulnerable. "I can make sure they know they're not alone."

[ That's a lot for a five-year-old child to carry. ]

"I'm not really five years old."

[ No. But you look like it. ]

[ And sometimes, Y/N, looking like something is already enough. ]

[ Sometimes the appearance of childhood is in itself a form of protection. ]

You didn't know what to say to that, so you said nothing at all.

You just stood in the empty park, watching the light slowly fade from the sky, and let yourself feel the weight of everything you couldn't change.

Tomorrow, you would try go back to the archives.

Tomorrow, you would try to read more of The First's writings, you would try to absorb more of that ancient wisdom, and you would try to understand what you were and what you were becoming.

Tomorrow, you would train with Satoru, you would push your body past its limits, you would bleed gold and heal gold and come back stronger than before.

Tomorrow, you would attend your grandfather's meetings, would review reports and smile at elders and play the role of the perfect heir with the skill that sometimes frightened you.

And tomorrow, you would pretend to be a child in a world that didn't make sense, in a life that was too big for your small body, in a story that you already knew the ending to.

But tonight, you would remember this.

The creaking swings. The red slide with its faded plastic. The sandbox with its pale beige sand. The buildings on either side, their windows reflecting the dying light. The smell of someone's cooking drifting from an open window, warm and comforting and completely ordinary.

The girl with the bright smile, who had looked at you with sharp eyes and asked if you were lying.

And the small, shy smile of a boy who had called your eyes a pretty treasure.

You would remember, and you would keep going, because that was what you did.

That was what you had always done.

[ It's getting dark. You should head back. ]

"Yeah," you said, and your voice was steadier now, more certain. "Okay."

You turned around and walked away from the park, your small feet carrying you toward the Okada clan's domain, toward the life you had been given in this world that shouldn't exist. The stars were appearing, one by one, scattered across the darkening sky like scattered diamonds, like gold threads woven into the fabric of the night.

Somewhere behind you, in a small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, a boy with dark hair and soft eyes was telling his friend about the strange child with golden eyes who had appeared in their park and promised to return.

"That's stupid," Rika said, pulling off her shoes and setting them by the door. "He doesn't even know where we live. How's he supposed to find us again?"

"I know," Yuuta said, climbing onto the couch and pulling a blanket around his shoulders. "But I still believe him."

Rika was quiet for a moment, standing in the middle of the living room with her hands on her hips, her yellow dress still covered in sand from the sandbox.

Then she said: "Yeah. Me too."

She climbed onto the couch next to him, pulling the blanket so that it covered both of them, and they sat there in the dark, watching the stars appear outside the window, waiting for a boy with golden eyes to come back.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ omg PLEASE let’s all collectively ignore the fact that i COMPLETELY messed up the timeline with yuuta and rika 😭🙏🏼

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