Chapter Text
"They say once you see a curse, your life changes forever. I think my life started changing long before that.”
People always imagine Jujutsu sorcerers as fearless, powerful, and a little mysterious—facing curses like it's just another Monday. But before I ever stepped foot into the halls of Jujutsu High, I was just... me. Y/N. A regular student with a not-so-regular problem: I could see things others couldn’t. Things that didn’t belong in this world.
I used to ignore them.
The shadows that moved without light, the whispers that made no sound, the figures that flickered just out of sight. I thought maybe I was losing it. Maybe I was sleep-deprived, maybe I had a wild imagination. But deep down, I knew better.
The day a curse attacked me, everything changed.
It was in a crowded train, the kind where you're packed in shoulder to shoulder and everyone's staring at their phones. I was gripping the metal pole, zoning out like usual, when I saw it. A figure, hunched and misshapen, crawling along the ceiling—its body covered in jagged teeth, dripping with something I didn’t want to identify. It looked right at me.
And smiled.
I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move.
And yet, somehow... it didn’t touch me.
I don’t know why. It could’ve torn me apart in front of everyone, and no one would’ve seen a thing. But it backed off. Maybe it was testing me? Or maybe it just liked knowing I was afraid? That night, I lay awake for hours, my heart racing, my mind spiraling. That was when I knew—I wasn’t just seeing things. They were seeing me too.
Now, here I am. First-year student. Sorcerer-in-training. Absolutely terrified but pretending not to be.
This place—Jujutsu High—it’s not what I expected. It’s quiet, but not peaceful. The silence hums with pressure, like the walls are holding their breath. Sometimes I swear they’re listening.
So far, I’ve only met one other first-year: Megumi Fushiguro. He’s calm in that "don’t talk to me unless you’re dying" kind of way. Not unfriendly, just… distant. I haven’t asked about his technique. I haven’t really shared mine either.
Honestly, I’m still figuring mine out.
They call it Blackscript.
My cursed energy manifests as liquid ink—dark, alive, and impossible to control if I lose focus. I can draw symbols mid-air or across surfaces, and each one holds meaning. Barriers, binding seals, confusion glyphs, even tiny explosions if I write fast enough. But every mark fades quickly. If I hesitate or doubt myself for even a second, the script breaks apart like smoke.
It’s not flashy. It’s not brute force. It’s precision. Timing. Emotion. The ink is tied to my intent—my truth. The more honest I am with what I feel, the stronger the effect. And that’s the problem. Sometimes I don't want to face what’s really going on inside me. Sometimes I don’t even know.
I leave the window cracked before I crawl into bed, letting in the night air.
My fingers still itch to draw something. Just one quick mark across the air.
Instead, I lie there in the dark, listening to the silence stretch between the trees outside. I think about everything I don’t know yet. About curses, and power, and the kind of person I’ll have to become if I want to survive this.
But for once, I’m not afraid of what’s coming.
Not entirely, anyway.