Chapter Text
Valentine’s Eve 2006
Love: it’s everywhere in the subway train. Movie advertisements—find your love. Teeth whitening products—love your best self! Self-help books, deftly turned in one hand—understand how to love.
All kinds of love, marketed to the yearning, the jaded, the perplexed consumers. Come and get your love.
There is a girl on this train who knows how to consume love. She is pushing through the crowd, apologizing as she squeezes by. This girl—ignore her panic for now—is in love, at this very moment. She’s in love with the salaryman stink. The oppressive claustrophobia. The elbows jostling against her, fighting for space to breathe. She’s head-over-heels with how the overcast sky flattens and dulls downtown Tokyo, washing out the skyline in dark grey, speckled with muddy colors of light.
She’s in love with the promiseless evening. With the winter moon, the cold crows, the withering fields. There are still a few farms left in Tokyo. They are cloistered off by metal boxes and the roar of airplanes. She’s in love with them too, the farmers who’ve planted their boots in the mud and won’t budge for any amount of money. She’s in love with humanity. She clambers through the 5:45 evening rush, and like someone falling from sleep into a deeper sleep, she falls from love into an even deeper love.
Her name is Seri. She has an agrarian physique, short and stocky, useful for toiling in her village far in the west, past the Japanese Alps. She is an onion farmer. She makes her living in the dirt. The people of Akatonbo say, fondly, that she looks like the parsley she’s named after. Korea calls it minari; Vietnam calls it rau cần nước. Thin green stalks with little leaves—nothing special about it, really, but it can stubbornly grow anywhere. She is an ordinary girl in every way.
Aside from the fact that she never cries while chopping onions.
In her backpack she carries: one water bottle (half-full, just like life), one onion, one brown wallet, and one concert ticket. Notice the ticket. The lettering is black and crisp. They say: BITTERSWEET Ugly Soulmate Tour—Shibuya Concert Hall—Friday February 13th 8:00 PM—LOST TICKET WILL NOT BE REPLACED.
She has come a long way to Tokyo for this concert… but, alas. Something distressing has happened.
(Is this a shocking development? Of course not! Every plucky heroine setting forth on an adventure must undergo her trials. She must face her dragon, her evil witch in the tomb, ideally with some help from a Prince Charming on a white horse. This is how all the stories go.)
Seri glances out of the corner of her eye. The odd, bent shadow is still following her. Teeth click, inside many mouths. “Smells good…”
She squeezes as politely as she can through the crush of office workers, who cast annoyed looks at her. There is a certain level of courtesy expected on a train: silence is appreciated, there is no such thing as personal space, but please do try to avoid stepping on toes. Seri is doing a lot of stepping on toes.
She scrambles into the next car and shuts the door, catches her breath next to a group of girls. Seri stares, falling in love with their heavy black eyeliner and butterfly hair clips. Did you see them, they’re giggling, those two hotties who got on the train, with nice hair? The door slides open. The tongues salivate. The girls gasp, did the door just open on its own? Freaaaaa-ky.
No time for people-watching! Seri claws her way into the next car. The year is 2006. The population of Tokyo is nearing thirteen million. That’s thirteen million souls crammed into the arteries of its subways. She cannot do anything but run. If she turns around, if she says, hello there, if you could please kindly stop following me… well, that would be crazy, wouldn’t it? An ordinary girl like her, talking to the air.
That’s when she hits her nose on someone’s arm.
Not just any arm. The arm of an intimidatingly tall boy. She doesn’t see the other one until she trips over his shoes and smacks right into his chest. A spark courses through her, like a static shock in dry winter air. Her breath catches. The adrenaline (surely, it’s just the adrenaline) makes her go weak in the knees.
A hand catches her, broad, lingering on the small of her back. Another shocking spark. His face is fox-long, and his eyes are black and cunning. On his uniform lingers the scent of sandalwood incense, bronze Buddhist statues, snow on temple roofs. “Are you alright?”
“Hm? Oh. Didn’t see you all the way down there, sprout.” The first boy smiles, sunglasses tinted dark.
“Hey. Don’t be a dick.” The monk straightens her up, brushing off her shoulders.
The boys are haloed by light; above their heads glows an ad for a romantic tv drama. Do You Believe in Love at First Sight? …YOU WILL!
Seri quickly brushes off her arms, getting rid of that shivery feeling. She does not even come up to their chests. Questions run through her mind: Do all Tokyo boys grow this tall? Are their all-black clothes high school uniforms? Does that mean they’re younger than her? Is this humiliating? Is she supposed to feel humiliated? She mostly feels astonishment.
“Hell,” she says, looking them up and down, “what sorta onions are you eating over here?”
“What?”
“She’s checking us out, Suguru. Blatantly.”
Plucky heroines have no time for teasing young men. She puts a palm on either chest and pushes them apart. Brows raised, they step aside and reveal—a wall. Oh. They’re so fit that they obscured the fact that there was no door. This is the last train car.
“Okay, rude.”
“She’s clearly running from something.”
“Are you, sprout?”
“N-not at all,” Seri squeaks. There is a certain humble onion-like quality about her. Her hair is long and black, tied together in low pigtails, and her freckled face is prone to blushing. Her jeans are shabby, but durable. When she speaks, her plain lips peel back and reveal buckteeth.
The—emerges from the opposite end of the car. It peers around, licking, drooling. It sees her.
“A pickpocket? A pervert?” drawls the white-haired boy. He leans down to get a closer look, and something holy shines behind his shades. “Huh. Bittersweet.”
She touches the front of her shirt. In a cursive font, Bittersweet is scrawled in scarlet-orange.
“What’s that?” the monk asks his friend.
“Idols. Hallyu. I hear they’re touring Japan this month.”
“Didn’t know you were a fan.”
“Nah, I only know about them because they’re, you know…” He whistles.
“Their songs are good too,” she whispers defensively, and looks down. Their feet have boxed hers in. Their shoes are black and sturdy, one pointed, the other square-tipped. Her dirty sneakers scuff against each other.
“That’s right. Don’t be shallow,” the monk chides. “Compliment their songwriting skills, pig.”
“You never even heard of them until now,” the deva jeers, and catches her gaze, grinning. “Fake fans, am I right?”
She immediately looks away. Her heart thumps as if trying to throttle itself. The—comes closer, while the boys do their little comedy routine.
“You really like the sound of your own voice, Satoru.”
“If you had the voice of an angel, you would too. Only BoA understands me.”
It’s here. Seri closes her eyes. Her headache is a horror.
“Are you scared?”
Her eyes flash open, green as her namesake.
The monk says again, “Don’t be.” His voice is a warm, deep murmur, and it’s like his hand is gently holding her again.
“Smells good…” It looms over the three of them: head cracked against the ceiling, full of teeth oozing black-tar drool. Seri’s knees bang against the boys’. Even their breath, in such close proximity, is shared. “Just one bite…”
The train enters a tunnel. Everything goes dark, and then there’s only the advertisements, lit hideously bright. For Valentine’s Day, give the gift of food! Romantic chocolate boxes! Cupcake bouquets! The way to the heart is through the stomach!
A hand lifts—a gaping mouth—a screech of metal—
The train rounds a bend and settles. Lights flicker back on. No one has noticed anything. There is nothing to notice. There is just Seri pressed against the wall, the monk and the deva checking their flip phones and laughing with each other, the crowded compartment of humans heading into the city to eat, because Tokyo is a hungry city. It is a city of boiling streets and charcuterie lovers and fizzy neon, where on every corner sits a drunk nameless god and the shadows are always nipping at your feet, moaning for a taste.
“Did you see something strange just now?” The deva is grinning.
“That Pokemon ad caught my eye,” Seri says softly.
He nods. “Diamond and Pearl is coming out soon. Should I get a DS?”
“Do you have time to play games?” the monk retorts.
“Let’s both get it. We can trade Pokemon.”
“No thanks. I’m catching weirder shit in real life.”
“You’re right! Geto-catch-‘em-all.”
“That’s rancid, man.”
“Shibuya, Shibuya,” the train announcement blares.
The boys are in their own private world. Her feet can move again. She makes a beeline for the doors, but two hands catch her mid-step.
Come with us, they say, let’s have a chat.
Isn’t this how the start of all the stories go? There’s a dangerously beautiful boy, or two, who beckon you across the borderline, who pull you in before you have time to think better. Your heart beats loud. Your nerves are alight with adrenaline. You look back at the world you know—and then ahead, at the strange, bewitching world you don’t yet understand. You might uncover secrets about yourself. Perhaps your arrival has been prophesized. Perhaps you carry unimaginable power in your young heart. This is how all the stories go.
The escalator is long and slow and packed. Seri loves to people-watch, but she sets the urge aside for now. It’s a cold night; the heaters are running, the vents blowing warm recycled air. Beneath all the subway noise, the monk says, “Do you know what jujutsu is?”
“Somewhat…” She hesitates. “But I’m from the country. I don’t know things are done in the city.”
“It’s normal to feel sick after an encounter with cursed spirits.”
She’s holding her stomach, looking queasy, but her smile is bashful. “Need some air, I think. I’ve seen shades all my life.” Seri pauses, then says, “I hate them.”
He’s standing on the same step as her. A strand of black hair is loose along the side of his face. There’s compassion in his eyes, which she could probably melt in if she was able to meet his gaze. “Your cursed energy is very small. It doesn’t trouble you normally out in the country, right? That’s good at least.”
“This technical school you go to… you’re training to be sorcerers? Protecting people from the fringes of society? That’s amazing.” Seri is still looking down, fidgeting with a pigtail. “You two are like gallant knights, huh?”
The deva snorts. The monk kicks him and says modestly, “We try our best.”
“Do you think Hell is real? Yomi, Naraka? Is that where curses are born?”
The deva is standing a step below them. His arms are spread, holding the escalator handrails on either side. It’s a careless posture that calls attention to his long legs, his height. He’s looking off somewhere else, but he says, “They’re born from humans.”
“If I ever met King Enma, I think I’d eat him,” the monk remarks. He presses his palms together in a mock gesture of piety.
“Should you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him,” the deva quotes.
Strange wisdom aside, it’s actually quite absurd how handsome these boys are. Her stomach clenches again. As she steps off the escalator, she almost staggers, but the monk catches the small of her back again, which is very heroic and highly unnecessary.
“Cursed spirits have existed for millennia.” The monk taps his subway card. “For as long as there have been humans.”
Seri fumbles for her card. An irritable crowd pushes at her back. “So sorry! Still not used to these.”
She escapes the turnstile and hurries over to the city boys. They wait for her, because of course they do: because she’s all alone, and dizzy with realization, and she looks a little sick.
“That’s that, then,” the monk says as she trips up to them.
“Yes, I—I suppose,” Seri bleats, now fanning herself as if she has a fever.
The deva asks, “You’re not interested in our school? We’re always short-staffed.”
An invitation. Come with us across the boundary. An offer. You could be around people who are like you. On the subway pillar is a romantic Valentine’s advertisement. It lights the sorcerers in pink and red as they stand on one side, and Seri, who stands on the other.
“No, no, I—I’m sure I don’t have the ability for it.” She bows her head in a fluster. “Anyway, I can’t move all the way to Tokyo.”
“Wow. She has more self-awareness than all the other small fry we meet.”
“Satoru, shut the fuck up.” The monk smiles serenely. “In that case, do you have any last questions?”
“Nope, not at all, I should get going.” She shuffles away from them, holding her stomach and hopping on her toes like a nervous, prancing sheep. “Thank you for your help and, um, service? Yes. May the moon watch over you, fair strangers! Farewell!”
The deva says, “Be vigilant, sprout. People like you tend to end up on the news as nice little things murdered in alleys.”
Finally, she looks at them. Directly. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, that’s a good face.” He pushes his shades up, snaps his finger at her. “That’s cute.”
“I’m older than you,” Seri mutters under her breath, and sticks her tongue out. They are already disappearing into the crowd, but she swears she hears the deva chuckle, as if he had eyes on the back of his head.
Nausea.
She can no longer stifle it. As she runs out of the station, she yanks out a cloth bag from her backpack, upends the onion, and retches the contents of her stomach into it. Dear god, several pedestrians cry out, are you okay, do you need to go to the hospital?
She touches her nose, feeling it run, and her hand come back red. “Thank you, thank you,” Seri says, stemming a nosebleed with her wrist, “but I have a concert. I have this concert.”
The headache becomes a splitting migraine. She lurches into a side alley—oh, there are even more people here, because Tokyo is nightmare, and she scares a group of Australian tourists. She hides behind a tanuki statue with alarmingly large genitals, takes off her jacket, and shoves it against her bloody nose. She touches the spot on her lower back, where the monk had gently caught her. It’s so hot it burns.
Just a few minutes. The feeling of—always fades. Eventually. Distract her with something else. Beneath the earth, fingernails are painted lustrously, examined, blown on with a sweet breath. The table is laden with a winter feast: cabbage and snow crab, burdock root and rice sake, sweet shrimp and fatty sliced amberjack.
Seri peels a raw onion with her bare fingers and chomps into it.
Office workers totter by, loosening their neckties and loudly complaining about their boss. They stumble into an izakaya, reeking of overwork and power harassment. Seri watches them. She was hungry, but the onion settled her stomach. She takes a few breaths of the sweaty alleyway air, perfumed with sizzling grease and decisions that will later be regretted in the light of day. She feels better. Her nose is okay. Everything’s fine.
Seri gets to her feet and checks her wristwatch. “Shit, ‘m gonna be late.”
The narrow side streets zigzag sharply, lit by hazy white lanterns. In the dark, these streets become a highway for lost dreams, a road for the gods. The street guide pamphlet takes her up a hilly alley, where between the buildings she can see the faraway lights of Shibuya Crossing. Skyscrapers rise up like fangs biting into the sky; the whole city is a mouth reaching for the ripe yuzu moon.
Squinting at the map, trying to find the concert hall, she doesn’t see the cursed spirits until they flood the alley, grotesque, salivating, breathing hot foul air into her face. “Smells good smells good just one bite—”
Her green eyes flicker black. Seri shouts, “I’ve had enough of you! Don’t come any closer! Get away from me!”
The curses freeze. They wiggle fretfully.
Seri trips over the dead body. Which is really the worst way to realize you are next to a dead body. Her sneakers splash in blood. She yelps and covers her mouth, as if to gag.
“…What have you done? This poor old grandma!” She crouches over the body, not revolted by death, only distressed. “She was probably not even ninety years old yet. She was in the prime of her life! She had hopes and dreams! Why did you kill her? She probably owned rabbits! And attends a knitting club for cool old ladies! They’re going to wonder what happened to her. They’re going to cry. You oughta be ashamed of yourselves!”
Blood drips across the grocery bag.
“And she was coming back from the supermarket! Now who’s gonna eat these vegetables? Will they go to waste? These perfectly good fibrous plants?” She picks up a leek and shakes it at the spirits. “You ever think about that when you go around killing people? Hm? Do you?”
They tremble: no.
Seri sighs and flaps her hands. “Make way, please! I’m late! This day has been excruciating. No, I didn’t mind the ten-hour bullet train ride. I’m talking about the two jujutsu sorcerers I bumped into.”
Her audience wiggle peevishly.
“I know! Sorcerers!” she grumps, picking up her pace. “Who had the audacity to be ridiculously attractive! I can’t stand p-p…pretty boys! I can’t even think about it anymore or I might throw up again. Think about Bittersweet, Seri! Think about your girls on the stage! Hey, hey! Not tonight, buster! Behave!”
More cursed spirits come prowling after her. They recoil when she turns her black gaze on them.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t sniff me. I hate curses.”
The devils of Tokyo follow: the fly-heads, the shapeshifting weasels, the giant toads, the lantern spirits with an old man’s face, the possessed oil-paper umbrellas hopping on two legs. Seri sings at the front of the parade, clicking the heels of her shoes. The night is fragrant. The stars are invisible. The gods have gone to sleep. O Tokyo! Your people! Living their simple everyday lives, coming and going, who are in love with each other! Who are living in this shared world! Carrying around their own beautiful fragments of humanity…
Silly baby, you messed up.
She pauses. What?
They're heeeeere.
Seri blinks; her eyes return to green. She had opened her second eyelids. She had been using her cursed energy. Hers.
The boys from the train are standing at the mouth of the alley. They are backlit by street neon. White hair, black hair. They stand with their arms clasped behind their backs, like gentlemen. Puddles of light drip at their feet, and on this dreary February evening in Shibuya, the polluted air around them seems to resonate. This is tense weather. It is not for rain, but the clouds are heavy with uncertain possibility: threat swells.
Seri stops. So do the cursed spirits. She is still wearing her Bittersweet concert tee, her farmer jeans, and dowdy pigtails. Her expression is one of blank surprise. Look at her. There is nothing evil about her. She has buckteeth.
“What technique is that?” Geto Suguru enquires courteously. “Is it similar to curse manipulation?”
“You—huh? What’s curse manipulation?”
“Sprout,” Gojo Satoru says. “I think we should have a conversation about the dead body you just walked past.”
“Dead… body?” Seri stammers. “Oh—that’s right! I was about to call the police! I’ll go find a convenience store—”
And then the cursed spirits are gone. The alley, howling with sudden wind, settles back down, empty. A bulbous millipede chews its meal on Geto’s shoulder.
“Don’t move,” he says. “Show me your hands.”
“Oh, gosh! Gosh! Ummmm! Ahhhhh!” Seri doesn’t know what to do. She spins around and runs into a vending machine, then turns back around and trips over her shoelaces and goes sprawling on the ground in front of the pretty boys. This is why she wanted to buy Velcro sneakers! But she was too busy dreaming about the latest Mitsubishi mini-tractor! Which didn’t matter anyway, because she had used up all her money on the tickets for the cross-country train ride and the concert!
“Hey, hey, enough with the act.” Gojo sticks his hands on his hips. “You are clearly an expert pathological liar.”
Seri can only say, “Whaaaaah?”
“That was some insane cursed energy,” Geto says with a miffed look. “You played us.”
“W-wait, wait, there is some misunderstanding here. I’m not a bad person,” Seri insists, rubbing her bruised chin. “And I haven’t lied to you—not really. Jujutsu and curses—I’m not interested in any of it. Please leave me alone. I’ll scream for help.”
Gojo tsk-tsks. “That’s not how this works.”
She sniffles. “But… I’m… being cornered by two weirdos in a dark alley…”
The sorcerers pause. They look at themselves, then at the much smaller girl patting the self-inflicted bruises on her head.
“Actually, this does look pretty bad.”
“For fuck’s sake, we look like predators. This is your fault, Suguru.”
“Why is it my fault? I am just standing here.”
“I dunno. I’ll find a reason.”
“Not a respectful bone in your body,” Geto lectures. Seri is about to sneak off undetected while the lover’s spat is going on, but then he says, “Why didn’t you tell us you were a sorcerer? That was shady.”
“Because I want nothing to do with you! Because you’re—” Seri bites her lip at the last moment. She can’t say it.
“Oh.” He points his thumb at the deva. “You know who he is.”
“What?”
“I am quite famous,” Gojo says thoughtfully.
“What?” Seri says again.
“She’s scared of you. That makes sense.”
The teenager runs a hand through his hair, sighing, “It’s true, my reputation does precede me.”
“I have no idea who you are,” Seri says. “Except you’re obviously a creep. Why are you wearing sunglasses at night?”
“Oi. This is prescription.”
“I guessed wrong?” Geto laughs. “Well, whatever.”
She looks around. Are they rookies? There’s no curtain. Lucky her, there’s a cramped side alley to her left, and then she’s off running. “HEL—”
She trips over her shoelaces again. This night is devoid of dignity.
Gojo checks her against the wall. She hears the thud of her own head, flinches, and sees Shibuya Concert Hall shining golden and lovely in the skyline above. It’s so close she can reach out and touch it, but he looms over her, the dark specter with his darker shades, his brilliantly white hair. “Bring out that cursed energy again.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Geto warns. That would’ve been really nice of him, except he leans his shoulder against the wall, trapping Seri’s other side. She feels sick again. They’re not in a crowded subway anymore. Why do they have to be so close? Can’t they respect her complex about attractive guys? (Obviously not.)
A window above opens. “Who was that? Who’s there?”
“Mrffff!”
“Dear me, just the mice.” The window closes. A sorcerer’s curtain has been raised over the alley.
“What are you hiding? Bring it out—ow!”
Seri bites his hand again. “Mrfhghg!”
Gojo uncovers her mouth and shakes out his hand. His grin is a snarl. “Come on, sprout, it’s no fun if you don’t fight back.”
“I’m a pacifist!” Seri shouts in their faces. Admire her: she is brave for someone a foot shorter than the boys. “I am anti-violence!”
They look stunned. “Seriously?”
“Seriously!”
“Come with us,” Geto says. Here’s how it goes: the dangerously handsome boys drag her to their magic school, ignoring her protests, her spunky insults. She’s the unwilling new sorcerer, the country bumpkin who does things a little bit differently, but over time, her charm will inevitably win them all over. That’s how it goes, right?
Seri tries to stomp on Gojo’s feet. “Why should I?”
“‘Why should I?’” Gojo mocks, mean and tall and terrible. One big black loafer stands on the tip of her foot, instantly suppressing her very effective martial attack. She punches at the air, not wanting to make physical contact. “Ya need a mirror to see what position you’re in?”
“You’re an unfamiliar sorcerer running around Tokyo.” Geto is far more pleasant, but it’s scary how he smiles like that while bullying her. “An inquiry is routine protocol.”
The deva has a hand below her clavicle, pinning her in place. It eased after her declaration, perhaps out of surprise, giving her the slightest space to break away. Her whole body feels on fire, like kitchen coals struck alive. The dancing red shadows cast by the coals fall open in long umbels of higanbana flowers. The painted nails tap impatiently. The lips wet with want.
Seri grabs the lean wrist and forces it away from her. Her fingers are claws. She shudders, holding her throbbing hand to her chest. “Fine. But you’re making a huge mistake. My cursed energy isn’t as fascinating as you think.”
Gojo scoffs. “It’s not like—”
“Bewitching, enthralling, et cetera. But I’ll come with you. Just step away from me.” She can’t look at them. It’s easier if she keeps her eyes on the ground, on anything else. It’s fine if she isn’t trapped in a small, enclosed space with these two boys again. “Please.”
An unspoken conversation passes between them, and they nod.
“I’ll meet you back here,” Seri says in defeat, “after the concert.”
“Ain’t happening,” Gojo says.
“No way,” Geto agrees. “We’re leaving right now.”
Seri doesn’t outwardly react. But, for just a moment, she forgets to keep it inside. She looks at their handsome faces, at their nice jawbones and soft cartilage, and imagines driving a thousand spears through them.
That is enough. Her eyes are black. Her rage is felt. This is how none of the stories go.
Geto Suguru’s monster chomps a hole in the side of her head. It eats off a slice of her face. She falls backwards. Her skin is already stitching itself together; there is so much residual cursed energy in the alley that it is easy. She barely has to think about it as she hits concrete. The pain fades as soon as it begins.
Get up, Seri! A voice comes from deep within her, deep as her feet, and deeper below in the ground. Fight back!
Seri lurches, her torso rising as if there is an invisible thread lifting her by the center of her chest. The rest of her body follows like a limp marionette. Her skull reforms piece by grisly piece, skin and bone and hair. The air around her compresses like a vacuum, flattening trash bags, vending machines, bicycles. Geto chants a sutra, two fingers raised in a hand seal. Her arms are flung back, paper talismans wrapping around her wrists. Gojo Satoru presses his hand over her head and shoves her nose into the ground.
Bone crunches.
Strobe lights sweep across the concert hall; Bittersweet dances in a blaze of glittery black and hot pink. The ground vibrates with the thrum of the speakers. She’s going crazy in the nosebleed section, jumping up and down, singing along in Korean. The lights flash, the pyrotechnics go off, and the crowd, this ocean of people with her in it, moves as one with the music.
“Thank you for coming, Seri-chan!” the Bittersweet girls yell in Japanese, pointing up at her. “Our final song is dedicated to you! We love you!”
“That’s me!” Seri shrieks, almost fainting. “Oh my gosh! I love you too! I love everyone! This is the best night of my life!”
“What a hilarious dream,” says a dark-eyed woman next to her. “But it’s time to head back, babygirl.”
The ground opens beneath her feet.
Seri wakes up.
“This is who you brought me to examine?” an exasperated voice says. “In a fucking coin laundry?”
“You were already in the area, Shoko. Stop complaining and help out.”
She is lying on her side on the floor, her mouth slack and dry. The air smells of detergent. Laundry detergent. Behind her back, her wrists are tied together by paper talismans that are as strong as steel. Her eyes are half-open, but do not register anything.
“You idiots,” says the exasperated voice, with withering distaste. “I don’t mind being an accomplice to kidnap and battery, but if given the choice, I’d rather not. This is so creepy. You guys are so weird.”
Kidnap? Battery? Seri’s whole face is sore and sticky with blood. Blood. Her blood. Her vision is slowly coming back. She sees shoes pacing in front of her, nice ones, petite.
Seri’s legs jerk, trying to find some purchase to stand, and hit a wall. It’s dark in here. And terribly cramped. Her knees are bound by talismans too. The lower half of her face is coated in dried blood from a broken nose, now healed.
“She’s waking up,” says the girl, Shoko, chewing on the straw of her iced coffee. “Think she’s gonna call the cops on your dumb asses? Can I watch?”
The year is 2006. Twelve years before Itadori Yuji arrives on the scene, ten years before Okkotsu Yuta steps onstage with his Queen of Curses, before Gojo Satoru interrogates those two boys in a sophisticated chamber guarded by the strongest jujutsu charms, there was Seri, trapped in the closet of a laundromat. Three malevolent, teenage Tokyo sorcerers have taken her prisoner. Rumbling laundry machines shake the walls. In the Shibuya nightscape, motorcycles rev, sirens scream, and pachinko parlors clang with garish music.
This is a promiseless winter evening, and Tokyo is a hungry city.