Chapter Text
January 2005
Judo. Unarmed Japanese martial arts. Developed back in 1882 by Kano Jigoro with ten degrees. It focuses primarily on grappling, wrestling, and ground fighting.
Is that why people look at you funny when you announce your dedication to the art? Because you are a girl, rather young at that, 14 years old. You don’t mind the whispers or the stares when you walk into the room to train, having heard far worse at home. Judo is an escape, a solace, a place where you could be the best. As the youngest rank ten in the division, shouldn’t you be happy? You got what you wanted. This is your final match for the season before school begins.
But then, why does your chest feel so hollow? Why are your hands empty? The cold weight of gold trophies from win after win doesn’t satisfy you the way you hoped.
The bathroom of the gym is empty, save for the hollering of people in the stands outside, waiting for your appearance, to watch you walk the mat just as you’ve done one thousand times before. Over and over. You think judo is starting to become a never ending loop— a cycle like everything else in your life. Wake up, eat, train, compete, sleep. Wake up, eat, train, compete, sleep. Wake up, eat, train, compete, sleep. Repeat. It’s been that way since you were six, when you first decided to explore something new. You would consider it the only thing you’ve done for yourself since then.
Your fingers curl around the edge of the bathroom sink, tighter as water drips in slow motions, and disappears down the drain. You adjust your belt with practiced ease, the same way you’ve always done. Take both ends of the belt, cross them together, loop three times for security, and tug on the middle to adjust. In that specific order. You cannot skip a step, it’ll throw your entire game off.
The bathroom door opens and closes with a short thud. The sound catches your attention, and you’re immediately on guard, hands clutched by your sides, ready to attack whoever it is—
However, the threat never comes. …”Are you ready?” It’s the soothing, yet rough voice of your sensei, the one that’s become most familiar at this point.
You loosen your grasp and shake your limbs, sparing a short glance to the mirror in front of you, just to make sure you’re set. This is your last match, afterall. It would be a shame to let them down.
Them.
Your body moves faster than your mind, and you find yourself walking towards the mat— familiar, safe. You’ve zipped your duffle bag four times, stepped your right foot forward first, and cracked your knuckles twice. This is going to be a good final match. Your victory. You know it.
The roars from the crowd fill your ears with a pleasure that used to make your heart race. You used to breathe for the thrill that judo was. The intensity, the adrenaline, all of it was unimaginable.
People fill the stands, it’s practically sold out.
The referee calls your name, “Zenin.” Cheers and shouts erupt throughout the sea of bodies. The Zenin’s were surely known. Too known. An ancient, elite Jujutsu Clan that’s been around for years means a silent suffering in the public eye, and even more so behind closed doors.
Then, to your surprise, your opponent, “Tamiko Kawasaki.”
She appears to be your age, maybe even younger by a few months. Lighter on her feet. Her gi looks freshly pressed, and she bounces on her toes like she’s barely touching the ground, an unadulterated excitement that courses through her veins. Wide eyes. Sharp focus. Not a trace of fear in her, just the thrill of being here. The feeling of being so alive, knowing you’re being watched, your every move analyzed by those waiting for you. There’s no tension in her shoulders, no pressure dragging her down.
She reminds you of someone.
Yourself. Before all this started to feel like a cage.
You used to smile before matches.
You used to love this.
The referee signals, you both bow. Yet, you keep your head slightly angled up, to watch the way her body curls in excitement. If you let her, her forehead would probably touch the ground, as though fighting you were an honor— a means to prove herself further. You used to do the same whenever you faced stronger opponents, before you became the best there is.
She surges forward before you’re ready, grips your sleeve too high, and nearly knocks you off balance. Not with skill, but with pure nerve.
You regain your footing, adjusting your weight with practiced precision. Her excitement reads like recklessness to you. It’s foolish, childish, too much. Her limbs are fast, but untrained. She’s smiling. Why is she smiling?
Flashback:
It had been hours since you started training, trapped within the four, spacious walls of the Zenin Clan sparring room. You’re dripping sweat like it’s the only thing your body is able to produce.
You hunch over yourself, your body curling in with the weight of the rigor. You haven’t eaten, haven’t slept. Naobito, your father stands before you with his arms crossed over his chest. Stern, brooding. He’s not going to let you go before you prove to him that you are worthy.
“Up.” He says simply. His tone is cold, and filled with no room for argument. He will continue to push you and push you and push you until you crack, until your resolve is broken and you can no longer do anything but fight, with raw, determined, unfiltered strength.
He would often drive you to the brink of death, because he believes that is when humans are at their most vulnerable, and also their strongest. They have something to continue fighting for and that is the will to live.
You don’t respond to his demand, only looking up at him with fear in your eyes— but that fear doesn’t come from the image of death about to capture you, no, it is the fear of disappointing the man whose feet you’re bowed at.
He wouldn’t let you die. He would do worse. He would throw you into the dungeon of cursed spirits, tucked away in the corner of the estate where it’s dark, and quiet— where your screams would resonate for hours with nobody to come.
You would know. He did this the last time you failed to comply. He did it when he found out you were never going to develop a cursed technique, nothing beyond RCT. You’ve heard of worse stories. Zenin’s who suffered more, brutally, and to the point of physical death.
“I can’t—” You begin your rebuttal, ready to try and convince him to give you a break, at least to eat, despite knowing it’s useless. He won’t let you go until you’re utterly perfect and tailored to his standards. He’ll push you to become a mold, the same way he’s been doing your entire life. Pick up your shoulders, stand straight, do not smile, do not break eye contact, do not be less than what you were taught to be.
He cuts you off, straight to the point and unwilling to give you what you’re so desperately asking for. Each stage of life is another phase of desperation for something you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to achieve. “You will. Get up and do it again.”
And so you do. Because the choice is not yours, it’s his.
He’s wiped the childlike smile off your face, sucked the marrow out of your life and the one thing you considered yours, to turn you into a desperate, perfection seeking, soulless monster.
Present Time.
You duck under her arm, pivot, and hook your leg around hers for a clean sweep. She stumbles, but catches herself. Her elbow grazes your jaw.
You exhale. Something inside you flickers and it burns your chest.
Not anger. Something deeper.
Why is she allowed to still love this? Why hasn’t she backed down? She’s surely suffered to get where she is now— with you. The best judo player in the prefecture. Why hasn’t she given up? How is she still going?
She charges again. Her hand slips for your collar, and you twist to counter, only you twist too far. Your balance is off. She grabs you. Tight.
The crowd sucks in a breath, jaws clenched, air trapped in their lungs with anticipation. Not once have you been caught off guard like that.
For a moment, your world shrinks to the heat between you two, like there’s a spotlight over both your heads, and you’re fighting for the center.
She’s winning.
No, no, no, no, no.
She can’t have this. She’s not allowed to. It’s yours. Utterly and completely yours. You can’t just let her come in and have something that you’ve clutched onto so dearly, with such fear, even if you don’t want it anymore. That drive and that fire is yours. It used to belong to you.
She goes in again, wild. She tries to hook your leg, but her balance is sloppy. You knock her hand away on instinct, your gi rustling with the motion. The mat shifts beneath your feet. You catch her wrist, bend your knees, prepare your counter.
She’s not strong. She’s not precise. She’s just trying.
And suddenly, that’s what hurts most.
You don’t think. You react.
You grip, pivot, and slam. A shoulder throw, but not clean. Your strength overcompensates. You hear the sickening crack before you see her hit the mat. Her body skids, rolls—
And she doesn’t get back up.
Someone screams. You’re not sure who, or where the sound came from. All you can hear is a persistent, nagging ringing in your ear.
You blink. She’s lying still. Her leg’s bent the wrong way, and blood is pooling under her head where it struck the corner of the mat, hard. The crowd is on their feet. Your sensei is calling your name.
You stare at your hands. They’re not empty anymore. They’re stained.
You don’t hear the referee call the match. You don’t hear the medics rush in. You don’t notice when they tell you your win has been revoked.
All you can do is stand there.
And remember what it was like to love judo.
“She’ll be okay,” someone lies to you. You don’t answer.
Your sensei comes up behind you and drags you by the neck, escorting you outside of the gym where you no longer belong. The crowd doesn’t cheer for you anymore. Your name is no longer whispered with awe, but with fear.
You pass your duffle bag in the hallway. Someone must’ve brought it out for you. The zipper is crooked. You can’t remember if you packed it.
Your hands are still shaking, your belt is still tied.
For the first time since you were six years old, you wonder what you’re doing this for. If judo is still yours. If it ever was.
You won’t have to worry about that anymore. After this, you won’t be allowed to compete again. It’s relieving, in a way.
“Multi judo champion nearly kills opponent during match.” No coach would want that—
Your sensei lands a harsh slap across your cheek. It doesn’t sting as much as it should. Maybe the numbness from chewing on the inside of your mouth eased the pain.
“What the hell were you thinking?!” He shouts, scolding you in the dark hallway as if you were some child who spilt milk on the ground.
You sigh, your shoulders heavy with ache and guilt gnawing in your chest. You try to peer out into the gym doors to check if Kawasaki is okay, but the medics and worried attendees block your view. You run a hand down your face, the years worth exhaustion catching up to you. “I wasn’t thinking, I was just…” Your words trail off and you bite your tongue.
He stands there, expectantly, waiting. He knew it would take you a while to speak. You were one of the most peculiar individuals he ever taught. One in a million. There’s nobody else like you out there, and you don’t know if that thought consoles you or only isolates you further, separating you from what you’re supposed to be.
“I—” You attempt to get the words out, but they’re caught in your throat. You can’t admit why you did it, why you threw her so hard when you’re fully capable of controlling your strength. You can’t admit weakness. Not here, not in the one place you’ve felt strong, worthy.
“I hope you know the consequences. Your career could be over.”
You scoff and run a hand through your tussled hair. The ponytail holding it up is starting to undo itself and fall down. You can feel the hair on the back of your neck and it serves to irritate you further. You tug harshly on the strands and your movements become jittery, like you’ve lost any sense of calm. “Why do you say ‘could’ instead of ‘is’? This is enough to ruin someone’s life! I mean, I ruined hers! She’ll never get to compete again!” But isn’t that what you wanted? To crush her hopes of moving forward? Is that your insecurity talking, or was it a valid reason to reignite your motivation just for this match? You never thought you’d be using your drive to burn out someone else’s.
“Because you’re privileged, Zenin. You’ll get out of this scott free if your father decides to insert himself.” His finger is pointed right in your face. You have to cross your eyes to see it properly. There’s a scowl painted on his mouth, replacing his previous expression of annoyance, and perhaps a bit of sympathy that vanished with the night.
“Oh, don’t talk about him!” You shout, and it startles him, also catching the attention of people standing by the door. “You don’t get to bring him up! He’s not even here! He’s not here! He never is!”
You shove the older man in front of you repeatedly, imagining he were the one you truly want to be yelling at. It’s not fair to him, you know that, but you haven’t been fair to anyone all night. Not even yourself.
Your hands twist the fabric of his gi between your fingers with enough force to tear the cloth. Choked sobs escape your lips, years worth of suppressing the tears. You can’t recall the last time you cried, or the last time you felt deserving of doing so.
He stands there like a statue and allows you to hit him, weakly, your fists nothing against his broad chest because your body cannot possibly muster any more strength tonight.
Incoherent mumbles and cries escape your once sealed shut lips. All those times you’ve refused to open your mouth, even to so much utter a word, are gone, and you’ve reduced yourself to this small, aching girl in the arms of a man who has no clue what to make of you. What are you? And can you even answer that question yourself?
He gently pulls you away from his now soaked gi and slings your duffle bag over his shoulder, his other arm on the small of your back to guide you out of the arena. “Let’s go, Zenin. Your car is waiting for you in the front.”
When you step outside, you’re hit with the extravagant city that Tokyo is. City lights flash all around, people walking, cars honking, trains blaring. In spite of the late hour, nobody seems to be asleep. You’ve made this commute thousands of times before– from Koganei to Tokyo, and Tokyo to Koganei where the Zenin Estate lives. Nothing seems to have changed, or maybe it’s your lack of notice for the things around you, too caught up in your own bubble, your own will. Some might call it selfish, airheaded, greedy, even, to have the privilege of ignoring the world, but you’d say it’s just who you are. A selfish, self centered, non caring girl. The apple doesn't seem to have fallen far from the tree.
A black limousine pulls onto the side of the street, and a tall man— your driver, emerges seconds later. You’ve known the guy for years, but are still unaware of his name.
Your sensei pats your shoulder and passes your duffle bag over. You can’t read the expression on his face, or tell if he’s glad about your departure.
“You start high school in a few weeks, right?” He attempts to make some sort of goodbye small talk. It doesn’t phase you. Though, the slight flutter in your chest from being acknowledged outside of judo says otherwise. “No more time for judo?”
“I don’t think judo has a place in my life anymore.” You shrug, catching the slipping duffle bag before it falls. The words are less of an agonizing, forceful detanglement, and more of a sense of freedom, followed by a hint of discomfort at not knowing what to do with yourself after this chapter in your life. “I’ll figure out what I’m going to do during high school.”
He gives you a simple nod of his head, a silent encouragement before turning around and heading back into the stadium to figure out what to do about the unconscious girl on the mat, and his now tainted reputation as a sensei.
Your lips purse into a thin line when you step forward, and into the car. You greet your driver who’s holding your door and settle in. The doors close, the engine starts and you begin driving back home, where you’re certain trouble will find you.
“He wasn’t planning on coming, was he?”
“He said he’d only make an appearance if you won.” There’s a long pause after that. The drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel irks you, and you begin to bounce your leg on the car floor. He notices. The tapping stops. When he speaks again, his voice is suddenly lower, heavier. “After the stunt you pulled, I haven’t seen him this furious since your mothers departure. That was the last time he had to clean up the Zenin’s reputation.”
Flashback— 10 years ago:
It was days like these that were your favorite. Naoya’s at a sleepover and your father has been away on a business trip, only to come back later tonight.
It’s just you and your mother. No shouting, no screaming profanities, no glass thrown around the house, no pictures falling off the walls. Only you and the woman with a voice smoother than silk, hands softer than freshly washed blankets, and smells like the perfect mix of hibiscus and peaches. Who cradled you like a fragile doll, who tried to be your shield whenever she could even if she failed.
You were the type of kid to wake up early and watch tv in the living room until everybody else woke up, then you’d scramble back to yours, afraid if your mother wasn’t there. She was never seen without you by her side, following behind her, helping out around the estate.
“I want to be just like you one day!”
You’d say and her sweet voice would follow right after with a light laugh.
“I’m sure you’ll be even better.”
You’d jump in whenever she would get into arguments with your father and he started becoming physical. You wanted to protect her the same way she did for you, even if you were far too weak.
But today, you didn’t have to worry about that. You’re curled up next to her, taking the side Naobito usually sleeps on when he isn’t angry enough to spend the night on the couch or at a bar.
It’s summertime, so the sun rises earlier than it normally would, peeking through the curtains and casting a warm, orange glow in the spacious room.
You toss and turn, the light bothering and waking you up while your mother remains fast asleep.
You quietly get out of bed, stretch your little limbs and walk over to the door, standing on your tippy toes to reach the knob and pull it open with all the force you could muster.
You don’t have to look left and right to make sure nobody’s coming because there’s no one here to hurt you. It’s just you and your mom. She’ll keep you safe forever, she promised.
The estate is not dark anymore. Your mother left the curtains open the night before. She says it’s because the plants inside the house need sunlight. She was always the type to get upset when one of her flowers died which was inevitable because she and Naobito were complete opposites— Not in an opposites attract kind of way, but in a they’re so different they can never agree with each other or see eye to eye on anything kind of way. She was the one who had to compromise for him, never the other way around.
She wanted the curtains open, he wanted them closed. Everyone would come home to a nearly pitch black estate.
She wanted soup for dinner, he wanted steak and rice. By 6pm, steak and rice would be waiting on the table.
She wanted to go on family vacations, he didn’t. You have never been outside Japan.
But there was one thing she got the last word on. She wanted a daughter, he didn’t, but they kept the baby anyway– after enough screaming and fighting.
Your footsteps resonate through the quiet halls as you make your way to the bathroom, past the photos on the wall where her face is not yet teared off.
You hop on the small stool in front of the sink and look at your reflection in the mirror. You heard that if you stare long enough, your reflection would change on its own. Surely, that couldn’t be true, you didn’t believe it, but you found yourself testing it out anyway.
When it doesn't work yet again, you decide to brush your teeth. Maybe one day, it will. You bet your mom can do it. She can do anything.
What you don’t know though, is your reflection would come to change, just not in the way you thought. You would watch yourself grow over the years through melted down sand and you’d be doing it all alone.
Once you’re done, you hop down and run back to your mom’s room to check if she’s awake yet.
You carefully crack the door open and it seems as though she knew you were coming. Maybe she heard your footsteps or maybe she has some sort of telepathy.
She sits up on the bed, holding her arms out for you. “Good morning.”
“Morning!” She kisses your cheek and you giggle heartily.
“How long have you been awake for?” She asks.
You put a three up with your fingers, indicating it’s been three minutes, but it’s definitely been more than that.
She gently strokes the apples of your cheeks with her thumbs. “Let’s do your hair? It’s a mess!” She says with a smile that lit up your little world.
“Yes!” You’re quick to jump off the bed and run into your bedroom, grabbing your hairbrush and some hair ties before coming back and settling in her lap. She smelled as she always did. Like hibiscus and peaches and home.
She carefully brushes the knots out of your hair, making sure not to tug too harshly. She’s so kind and gentle, you doubt she’s capable of being unkind towards anyone. Not even a fly. She parts your hair evenly, gathering the short strands and tying them into two pigtails.
She turns you around in your lap, now facing her. “You look beautiful.”
You smile widely. “You’re more beautiful.” The word comes out jumbled from your lips.
“No, you are!”
“You’re the most beautiful.” You dramatically wave your hands around.
“Okay fine. How about we’re both equally beautiful?”
“Yes!”
She hoists you on her hip and gets out of bed. She brushes her teeth, does her own hair and checks the mail, all with you on her hip while you rest your head on her shoulder and relish in the peace that rarely comes with the Zenin Clan.
She pours you a bowl of cereal and sets you down on the couch, turning on the tv while she makes tea in the kitchen. You look back every now and then, just to make sure she’s still there.
She sings quietly to herself, but it catches your attention. You pause to listen better and you can’t believe this woman is your mother.
She stirs the boiling water on the stove and moves her hair away from her neck, massaging the area as though to get rid of any built up tension that only seems to go away when there isn’t an angry man in the house.
That's when you see a bruise that’s now faded into a light green color, almost gone, but still there, still visible to your eyes and something in your heart churns. Her shirt falls off her shoulder, revealing another and one on her upper back. She’s hurt.
You accidentally knock over the bowl of cereal in your lap, having been too preoccupied on what could’ve happened to her. You look down when the cold milk hits your leg and watch as it drips onto the expensive couch and carpet.
She doesn’t notice until you start crying— sniffles that turn into full blown tears.
“Hey, what's wrong?” It doesn’t register in her mind to turn the stove off.
You can hardly speak through your tears, worries of making her upset prevent you from doing so.
She looks at the mess then back at you and reaches her hand out to tell you it’s okay, but you jolt away. The last time you spilled something, Naobito was home. He had taken you by your arm and locked you in a room until your mother came back. You know they are not the same, but the fear still lingers.
She cleans you off with a nearby cloth. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. Accidents happen.”
You hiccup repeatedly and she wipes your tears, not knowing it may be one of the last times she does so. If you knew, you would’ve held on a little bit longer.
“I’ll go get you a new change of clothes. Stay here.”
You nod and watch as she disappears down the hall, with guilt still swirling inside you. You pick up the flakes of cereal that spilled out, one by one, off the couch and floor. She’ll forgive you now, right? Even though she wasn’t mad in the first place, you’d feel bad if she had to clean it up too. She won’t lock you away, she won’t hit you, she won’t leave just because you made a mistake— No, she won’t do that.
You waddle over to the kitchen, carefully so none of the cereal falls back onto the floor, toss it in the trash and wash your hands in the sink.
To your side, there’s your mothers tea brewing on the stove. An idea crosses your mind, one so good that if you picture it hard enough, a light bulb would appear on the top of your head.
You drag a stool over and set it in front of the stove, climbing on and squinting down at the drink that bubbles below you, which you thought wasn’t being lit by a small flame anymore.
You raise two grubby hands and envelop them around the tea kettle.
The shrieks that followed after were loud enough to break glass. You fall off the stool and look down at your hands that are soon to be covered in blisters. You’re drowning in excruciating pain, unable to move in fear that your hands would fall off.
Your mother comes running into the kitchen and for the first time, she yells. She yelled at you.
“What are you doing?!”
The unexpected tone of her voice makes you cry more. She didn’t mean to, but she can’t take her eyes off of you for one second.
“What happened?”
You shake your head and clutch your hands close to your chest, assuming that would be enough to cover up your grave mistake, but the shattered tea kettle isn’t helping your cause.
“Let me see your hands.” She says firmly.
When you refuse for a second time, she reaches out and gently pries them herself, reassuring you that she’s not upset, she was scared and worried.
She sucks in a breath at the sight. It’s worse than she expected. She swallows through the lump of guilt in her throat, feeling like it’s her fault for being irresponsible and leaving the stove on. Though, nobody’s really in the wrong.
She stands up and fills a bowl of cold water. “Put your hands in here. I’m going to go out to the store so I can get ointment.” At this point, your RCT hasn't fully materialized yet. You could hardly heal a cut, much less a burn on both hands. It would wear you out too much.
“Wait!” You cry. “Can I go with you?”
She shakes her head. “No, you’re hurt.” She’s already up and gathering her things. It feels like there’s an impending sense of doom coming down onto you.
“How long will you take?” Your voice comes out as small and broken as ever.
“I’m not sure, but it won’t be long.”
For some reason, you don’t believe her. You’ve stopped believing people since.
You nod hesitantly and she kisses your forehead.
From the kitchen, all you see is her back walking out of the door and closing it.
You haven’t seen her since that day. Nobody has.
Present Time.
The car pulls into the estate driveway with a silent hum. You hadn’t noticed your zoning out and reminiscing on the past again. It’s been years since you last thought of your mother. Judo and the Zenin’s left no room to do so.
You twist the knob of the front door open with shaky hands, like stepping within the perimeter of the Zenin Estate is already enough to send your nerves into a frenzy. It’s quieter than usual, but the lights are on. There’s no doubt somebody's home… and after today’s match, it wouldn’t be a surprise if they all were.
You slip inside the house with quiet steps and leave your shoes at the door, quietly shutting it behind you. “I’m home.” You call out, deadpan. It’s not a formality, or an act of care, waiting for someone to approach you with open arms, but a simple letting them know.
Silence, and then footsteps, ones you recognize, forced yourself to remember the distinct pattern of their feet against the floor to run if you needed to. Your grip on your bag tightens and you’re locked in place. That sheer amount of cursed energy could be sensed from a mile away, its menacing aura enough to cloud a room and leave everyone suffocated. Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to look up.
Your breath hitches, and your knees buckle like jelly, ready to give out under the weight of your nervousness, but you’re too prideful and too afraid to let it show. You don’t want to deal with his mockery right now. Naoya, your older brother, the one you were forced to walk behind, who never let you forget that you could never be anything more than a mold for the clan.
It’s quiet for a few seconds, the air stilled, and nothing to cut through the barrier between you. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, that look of pure hatred the same as ever. You can’t recall a time where he peered at you with anything but such.
“They’re expecting you.” He says, calmly, too calm.
You swallow hard, but the action scratches down your throat like glass.
“They?” you ask, voice quieter than you intended. “They” could range from a multitude of people— from your father, uncles, cousins, to the involvement of the higher ups and the other clans— Gojo and Kamo. Given your father’s insistence on maintaining the reputation of the Zenin Clan, the interference of others to help clean up your mess isn’t a far-fetched reality. It’s simply an embarrassing hassle.
Naoya doesn’t blink, but he catches onto the slight stutter in your words, the shakiness in your breath and the subtle pause you took before answering. A smirk tugs on the corner of his lips, as though ready to sink his fangs into your skin and infect you with venom. His eyes drag over you in that same passive, condescending way he’s mastered since you were old enough to understand disgust.
“Father’s in the east wing, the meeting room. Don’t keep him waiting.” He steps aside without urgency, like royalty giving way to a servant. You’d be lucky if he even considered you so. You could walk around him, keep a safe distance, but you don’t. You pass close. Shoulders brush. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t so much let out a grunt.
The contact sends a ripple of heat up your spine, and not the kind that keeps you warm. You’ve never experienced warmth from Naoya, not even an embrace. It’s cold, insulting, a reminder that no matter how many wins you carry, how many titles decorate your name, you are still beneath him.
You tighten your grip on your bag further, and keep walking, jaw clenched, head held low as you watch your feet drag along the floor. The air changes the moment you leave him behind. Thicker. Stiller. Almost like the walls themselves are listening in on your miserableness. His eyes watch you from afar, piercing and unwavering before he finally turns on his heel and walks in the opposite direction, creating a greater distance between your superficial bond as siblings. If it weren’t for blood relation, your affliction with Naoya would plummet from 100 to 0.
The Zenin Estate is still pristine. Floors polished to catch warped reflections like a pond on a bright summer day. Totally contrasting. Long corridors flanked by sealed doors that have heard too much, the pictures that hang on them acting as their eyes, and holding every secret passed along the thousand year old clan. If the portraits could talk, you’d ask if there’s a chance of change, if the Zenin’s have it in them to become better people, or if you are all destined to follow in the footsteps of hate, anger, and bitterness. Not even the gold trimmed fixtures could chase away the dusk that lives in these halls. It’s like you’re walking toward the open mouth of something ancient.
Fifteen steps. Right turn. Second door on the left of the east wing.
You pause, the door towering over you, cold oak with iron detailing. The brass handle is warm under your palm, almost mockingly alive.
You raise your fist and knock three times, three slow raps. The sound swallows itself. There’s no response, so you push the door open.
The room is still and sterile, nothing like what it once was when your mother still wandered these halls. She hated messes. The dust collecting along the edges of the door would give her an attack. The maids aren’t allowed in this part of the estate, hardly anyone is, unless it’s a special occasion, like this one. Naobito says the room holds too many valuables, too many secrets that could potentially destroy the clan if any of them got out. You’re assuming the other two respective big 3 clans are the only ones who have some sort of knowledge of what may pass within those four walls. Information like that is typically spread within the clan heads to remain confidential, but also providing the ability to work around any barriers if needed.
It smells faintly of cigar smoke and old alcohol, two things Naobito was almost never seen without. Heavy curtains blot out the setting sun. Naobito stands by the far window, back turned, a glass of amber liquor cradled lazily in one hand. His posture is casual, but something in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, tells you the casualness is a front. He’s waiting.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters. His voice doesn’t rise above a conversational tone, but the bite in it is unmistakable. “Sit.”
There’s only one chair. Centered. Exposed. Like prey on display. Naoya must’ve been baiting you with his choice of words. There’s nobody in the room but you and your father, and it doesn’t seem like anyone else is coming either. You glance to your side, careful to not move any part of your body but your eyes, and catch his phone tossed aside, still flipped open with the screen illuminated on his contact list. He probably just finished up a call regarding your judo match. This should be over quick, hopefully.
You cross the room and sit down without a word, placing your duffle bag at your feet. Your shoulders slump in relief at the weight finally gone, but you quickly pick them back up before he notices and chews you out for being improper. Your palms rest on your thighs, fingers curled into trembling fists.
Naobito doesn’t look at you. Instead, he takes a long sip from his glass and finally turns, placing it with a soft clink on the windowsill.
“I got a call,” he says, slow and sharp, like he’s savoring each syllable, the letters melting on his tongue. “Said the match ended in blood, the girl in the hospital.”
You keep your eyes forward. Your throat pulses. Your heart races against your ribs like it wants out.
“Is it true?”
You try to speak, but there’s a lump blocking the words. You nod once, short and restrained. Telling the truth has never been this difficult.
He studies you, his eyes that you inherited staring right into your own. The silence stretches between you like a taunt rope, ready to snap.
“I told them you were tired,” he says eventually. “That it was an accident.” His voice is almost amused now, the way someone might speak of taming a wild animal. He stares at you as if you were one, almost as though he couldn’t believe he bred something so pathetic, so weak, so different from what he had expected. This creature is half his blood and the fact sends him into a frenzy every time he looks at you. “They believed me.”
You don’t breathe relief. You can’t. Not in this house. Not in front of him, because you know there is something else coming, ready to entangle you in the ropes of your lineage, making it harder to break away— if that’s a tangible possibility, or a plea for freedom.
“Of course, you’ll apologize,” he continues, walking toward you now. Each step echoes, deliberate. “Publicly. We’ll spin it as a lapse in judgement. Pressure. Youth.” He stops in front of you and tilts his head slightly, as if analyzing a sculpture he hasn’t finished sculpting. You don’t dare back away. “People love stories of redemption, especially when they’re about girls like you, who were born into legacy, trained to bleed for it. They’ll come to take your accident,” he air quotes, as if he knows, just as well as you do that Kawasaki getting injured tonight wasn’t really the accident you want to convince yourself it was, “...as proof of your determination to become a better judo player.”
Your jaw clenches. Your fingernails dig into your thighs, leaving tiny crescents of skin behind. You want to scream, you want to sob, but you’ve learned not to do either.
Then, he leans in. His voice drops.
“But don’t mistake this for forgiveness. You fucked up tonight.” You can tell he’s holding back on lashing out at you, raising his voice, and shaking you stupid for what you did to your clan, your family, your reputation after being in the shadows for so long. It causes your breath to leave your lungs like a punctured balloon.
He turns and walks back to the window, running a frustrated hand through his unruly hair, the signs of age and stress evident. His glass is now empty, but his presence even more full from before— probably due to successfully manipulating the public yet again. You always knew clan reputations were gospel, and your father was a man who hated losing. Whether it be in the public eye with another scandal, the mystery of his wife’s disappearance being the last one to strike suspicion, or being seen as lesser than the Kamo’s and the Gojo’s— both exceptional with something to give, but the Zenin’s have what? Whispered chants throughout the Jujutsu Society for their constant childish acts, petty fights within clan members, the family head being a drunkard.
Meanwhile, the Kamo’s are forever famous because of Noritoshi Kamo, and their basic act of not allowing anyone else to become like him, which canceled out their creation of cursed wombs. The Gojo’s have been the main topic of discussion of the last decade, the most praised in years for the birth of the boy with the inherited family techniques, the only one of this time who possesses them. The Zenin’s, compared to them, have nothing to offer. A daughter with nothing but Reverse Cursed Technique, a snobby son who’s known for causing scenes during public events, clan members shunned for various different reasons. It’s not a good look, and everyone knows that. The family tree is practically a disgrace.
“Your career is done. No more matches. Don’t expect to set foot in another gymnasium. You’ll start high school as scheduled. You’ll keep your head down. No press. No noise. Don’t even speak of the incident outside of the public statement we are releasing.”
He exhales and watches the city lights flicker to life outside the window. It’s completely dark out now.
“You were born to serve this family,” he bites, the words slow and metallic. “Not disgrace it even more than you already have. You are the same age as the Gojo boy, yet we cannot even think of pitting you against him. You’re nothing.”
The sentence drops into your lap like a lead weight. Heavy. Familiar. You’ve heard so much of this so-called prodigy without ever having crossed his path. You don’t know if you should thank him for giving your clan something else to gossip about rather than your lack of ability to be a good sorcerer, or hate him for the constant comparison. Either way, it’s not his fault. You just want to put the blame on someone and have it be worth more than a dime.
You stare at his back, the shape of him, how tall he stands and how distant he feels, like a tower built with no intention of ever being climbed. You remember being a child and thinking he was unreachable. Now, you know better. You’re not that naive anymore. He’s not unreachable. He’s just empty.
He doesn’t turn again or tell you to leave.
But then he says— quiet and flat, “And next time you feel like showing weakness, do it in private,” he pauses. “Your jealousy is sickening.”
You stand, silently.
You gather your bag, ignoring the way your knees threaten to buckle. You walk to the door, past the ghosts, past the bruises that still haven’t faded, and you don’t look back.
You learned long ago that looking back in this house only gives them more to take.
The echo of your footsteps trail along the tile floor of the estate as you walk the opposite way, back turned to whatever shadows linger behind you, following you with every step, until you round the corner toward your bedroom.
Your motions are hasty, almost tripping over your feet when you swing the door open and slam it shut— now silently hoping nobody had heard its heavy clank. Not that you have any plans to stay here much longer, only stopping by to drop off your things.
The duffle bag lands at the edge of your bed with a dull thud. The ache in your shoulder finally dissipates, but the hollow in your chest does not. You tell yourself you were tired of the sport, yet its absence carves into you all the same, in the way nothing else had. It shouldn’t be this hard, but it is. And that, you think, is why you’re incapable of being the perfect Zenin. It’s not just the lack of technique or strength, but the missing indifference required to make it as one. You were born wrong.
Tears prick in your eyes for the second time that night. It’s pathetic, even for you. You bring a hand up to wipe the waste before it falls, figuring it wouldn’t do any good, wouldn’t get you anything at all. Crying, even as a child, only resulted in something being taken away from you. Grubby hands turned calloused from copious amounts of once impeccable work, failing to hold onto a single thing that counted.
You peel off your gi as you’ve done countless times before, and walk to your closet, crouching down to pull out a box from the dark corner. In here are the items you’ve collected over the years. A seashell from the beach when you were 5, a ticket from the movie you watched alone, a penny from 1712, and tons of other worthless trinkets that once brought a fleeting, spark of joy into your life. A bloom in your chest that lasted no longer than a couple minutes, but it meant something. You figure judo did, too, so it’s only fair that it gets its rightful place in the box.
You push the box back, close the door, and sink to the floor of your childhood bedroom. Knees tucked against your chest, your chin atop of your bruised knees, you stay there for a while, embracing everything you hate and once loved.
Minutes passed before you finally rose to your feet again. Your hands still tremble as you reach for the sweater draped over your desk chair and slip it on, cool against your skin. You’re headed to the one place in Koganei where nobody would think to look for you.
The streets are empty by the time you leave the estate, Koganei isn’t half as populated as the other cities in the Tokyo prefecture. Streetlights flicker in and out, their weak glow spilling the pavement as you walk, hood drawn up to hide your face from the wind. The air fogs with each breath you take. Winters in Japan are harsh, and won’t be missed.
It’s silent at night, almost deliberate for a city that is so lively during the daytime, like the city itself has agreed to look the other way to all the sins that partake within it.
You take the narrow trail behind the abandoned park you used to play in as a child, when you were allowed, that is. You still remember the feeling of the strangers— another Zenin Clan member whom you can barely make out the face of, hand in yours, dragging you away while you pleaded for another 5 minutes.
The ground softens beneath your shoes as the grass overtakes the pavement, and soon the quiet noises of the still city fade into a distant hum. You remember the first time you came here– how the air smelled of rain and earth, and how the view stretched endlessly until the sky folded into itself from sunrise to sunset. You were always reprimanded for staying out without notice, skipping out the training your clan deemed necessary for someone of your ranking… but it was worth it.
The edge looks the same as it did back then, the edge of the cliff crumbling the closer you walk toward it, pieces of rock and debris falling into the lake that shimmers beneath.
The wind catches your hair, and for a moment, it feels peaceful— the only kind of peace someone could ever find when they were ready to let go. You take a step forward, dangerously close, but your adrenaline doesn’t spike and your heart doesn’t race. Your limbs are loose, relaxed, as you step closer and closer.
And that’s when you hear it— a voice bright, but with unmistakable traces of tiredness, cutting clean through the quiet air.
“Didn’t expect to find anyone else up here,” he says. “Are you gonna kill yourself?”
Way to put it bluntly, you think. It sounds almost stupid hearing someone else say it out loud. He doesn’t look fazed in the slightest, doesn’t even move closer, as though stopping you doesn’t cross his mind.
You don’t bother looking back to match the voice to the face, only staying stuck in your place, nerves spiking now that you know there’s someone witnessing this. “You’re too late,” you murmur, quietly, half expecting him to not hear it.
But he did, and he shrugs. You hear a faint crack of a can, the soft fizz before he takes a sip. “Usually, but not right now.”
“Yes, you are,” you insist, and you can practically hear the way his lips curl upward, not believing anything you’re saying. He knows his presence distracted you from whatever was about to happen.
“If you were going to do it, you would’ve already.” He replies, voice steady. “Wouldn’t let me stop you.”
When you turn, he’s there, standing a few paces away, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like the cold is affecting him, too. His hair catches the faint light from the city lights below, faint and white, parallel to that of snow.
“Are you kidding?” You say, scoffing. “What sane person does that knowing another person is watching?”
“What sane person thinks to do this in the first place?”
You turn around to face him and the intensifying wind knocks the hoodie off your head, the chill making your body visibly shiver.
His eyes widen, but uncharacteristically, he waits for you to speak first.
You don’t miss the slip up, and your own narrow in retort, an untold staring contest taking place between the two of you. You cross the distance until you’re nearly chest to chest, ignoring how his presence intensely looms over yours.
His eyebrows lift and he hums, as if to talk because you won’t, but he decides against it, guessing you’re formulating some retort.
Your shoulders sag and you step back. “What are you doing? Can’t you just… I don’t know— look the other way?” Your voice is soft, almost defeated, and it amuses him, in a way.
He tilts his head, studying you with that unnervingly calm gaze. “You really don’t like company, huh?” He shifts his weight from one foot to another.
You scoff, though it comes out more bitter than amused. “Depends on who it is.” Though, it’s a lie. You’ve never had the presence of anyone you enjoyed being around, not in a long, long time.
“Fair enough,” he says, shrugging again like it’s no big deal, though the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly. “I just figured… Well, I didn’t really figure anything out. I didn’t even think I’d find someone else up here, but you looked like you needed someone to look at you. And, here I am.”
You blink at him, caught off guard. His words aren’t heavy, they’re expected, really, and yet, somehow, they press against you anyway. You open your mouth to snap, to push him away with some sharp remark, but it falters, lost somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
He notices the pause, the subtle hesitation, and leans back just slightly, still observing, still waiting. “Not gonna say anything?”
“I—” Your voice catches. You swallow. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
He hums, amusement softening into curiosity. “Well, lucky me, I guess. Didn’t really want to talk to anyone tonight anyway.”
Without waiting for a response, he steps past you and perches on a sturdier section of the cliff, the edge just behind him where you had been standing.
You stay where you are, shoulders tight, hands brushing against your hoodie as the wind tugs at it. The edge of the cliff seems sharper somehow, but his presence doesn’t make you want to move. If anything, it makes every sound, every shift in the air more acute, like it’s warping itself around the two of you alone.
Your eyes trace the faint outline of his silhouette, the way he leans back on his hands and the dip in his shoulders from obvious exhaustion that he can’t hide no matter how hard he tries. Calm and steady, he doesn’t flinch at your tension, doesn’t flinch at the cold, and that steadiness, it unnerves you.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, voice low, but clear. There’s no teasing this time, just observation. Like he’s studying something carefully without needing to look, waiting to see what it will do.
You swallow the knot in your chest tightening. You shift your weight, uncertain whether to step closer or retreat. Your pulse is loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it.
Sighing deeply, you ignore the tightness in your chest and sit beside him without a word, pretending not to notice the way he looks at you from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the lake. “Do you come here often?” He asks, his voice returning to normal now.
You nod, picking at your nails with your hands in your lap, sharing the view with him. “Yeah, I do. I didn’t think anyone else did, though.”
“Yeah, neither did I.”
Silence stretches between you, awkward to you, at least. Whether you’re here or not seems not to register with the boy beside you at all.
Subtly, you try to examine his features, unaware of the way he catches every drift of your eyes across his face.
You decide to introduce yourself.
“I’m—” But he stops you before you get the chance to finish.
He rolls his head back once, groaning lightly to alleviate the pain, then meets your eyes. “I know who you are.”
His words catch you off guard. “You do? How—”
“I’m Satoru Gojo.”
Oh. That’s all you manage to say. This guy. Him. He’s the one whose name has shadowed your life in the Zenin Estate, spoken more times than your own. And now, seemingly an ordinary high school boy, he sits beside you. He’s… Satoru Gojo.
He smirks at the way you linger on his name. “Nothing else to say?”
You stammer, unsure of how to feel. “I guess not… You know me, I definitely know you. What else is there?”
“You definitely know me?” He repeats, emphasis heavy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Please,” you chuckle, trying to act casual. “Don’t play dumb.”
But the way he raises an eyebrow tells you he’s not pretending, not to the extent you assumed he was.
“Uhm…” you begin, fingers fidgeting. His eyes fall to your lap before returning to your face again. “It’s just that my clan talked about you a lot. I knew your name and stuff… just not what you looked like.”
“Oh… okay, yeah. Expected that,” he says, shrugging lightly, eyes flicking to the lake below as if to mark the distance between the past and now.
You stare at the ripples in the lake, pretending to be absorbed just as he had been, legs swinging back and forth, as if you weren’t contemplating jumping from this ledge only a few minutes prior. “You know… everyone makes you sound like a legend or something. I wasn’t expecting… this.”
“This?” He lifts an eyebrow again, amusement flicking across his face. “What, me sitting here, being normal?” His tone changed slightly, a little flatter than it had been before. It almost makes you feel bad for saying what you did, but you weren’t trying to be insulting… just pointing it out.
Satoru Gojo of all people knows fully well he isn’t normal. The normal things he does aren’t normal, the normal thoughts he has aren’t normal, because he’s not normal. That seemingly makes everything else about him abnormal, too.
If only he knew that’s not how you saw things.
“Normal,” you repeat softly, “or whatever you call it. Less… scary.”
He chuckles, low and easy. “Less scary, huh? I’ll take it as a compliment for now.”
You try to hide the tiny smile tugging at your lips, glancing up briefly to meet his eyes. He notices.
“See, you’re already analyzing me,” he says, voice playful, almost daring.
You look away, cheeks warming. “Maybe I am.”
He hums, satisfied and leans back slightly, hands planted on the cliff behind him. “Good. I like people who notice things.”
But he doesn’t really know anybody who notices things. He just “knows” you, and assumes he’ll like you.
You hug your shoulders tighter, the night only growing colder as time passes. The moonlight reflects off the lake, scattered and flickering like a constellation someone had dropped in haste. You’re trying to ignore the chill, trying to ignore how exposed this cliff felt.
“So… your judo match,” he asked casually, shooting you a sidelong glance as he remained with his arms braced behind him.
You groan in embarrassment and pull your sleeves to your fingertips, burying your face in your palms, cheeks heating up.
He lets out a bark of laughter. “What? I’m just asking!”
You blink, unsure whether to laugh or glare. “It’s embarrassing. How do you even know about that? I could’ve sworn my dad already paid news outlets to remove the story.”
He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head lightly. “He did, but I overheard the clanhead talking about it. Sparked a big thing for them today.”
You peek through your fingers, meeting his amused eyes. “So… other clans are talking about me. I’m not surprised, I just didn’t want this to be the reason.”
“Appearently,” he says. “I don’t care about what they talk about half the time. It doesn’t matter to me.”
You huff softly, trying to appear nonchalant about the situation, but failing. The guilt for Kawasaki’s sake is still eating at you. “It’s not funny,” you mutter, the corner of your mouth twitching. “I just didn’t want it to be a thing.”
He leans back, tilting his head to catch the moonlight on his face. He seems unfazed by it, but this isn’t the worst thing he’s seen or heard of. For someone who was born into the concept of death, there aren’t many things that easily capture his attention. Jujutsu stories hold less and less significance the more he hears about them, tuning out half.
He tosses a pebble and it skips once before sinking. “So,” he says after a while, “What’s your statement going to sound like? Something poetic? ‘I apologize for my catastrophic judo match and the shame I brought upon my noble clan—”
“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving his arm lightly.
He laughs, bright and short. “Come on, I’m serious. What’re you gonna say?”
You sigh, the cliffs surface cold against your palms. “Something boring. Something rehearsed. I’ll say I’m grateful for the chance to prove myself and that I’ll work harder to uphold our family’s reputation.” You glance over. “Along those lines.”
He tilts his head, watching you for a moment. “That sounds lame.”
“Well, it’s not supposed to sound cool. That’s for sure.”
There’s a pause. The words hang between you and he doesn’t try to fill the silence this time. The breeze moves through his hair, carrying the remnant scent of a fading winter.
“Do you ever feel,” you begin slowly, “like no matter what you do, they’ve already decided who you are?”
He scoffs as if that question has the most obvious answer in the world. “All the time.”
You glance at him, surprised at how steady his tone is. He’s not bitter… not exactly. Just tired, and used to it.
“Yeah?” You murmur.
“Yeah,” he stretches his arms overhead, lazily. “It’s exhausting.”
You don’t say anything at first. You just watch him— the way the light touches the edges of his hair, the quiet strain beneath his grin.
“I thought you liked attention,” you say eventually. It’s a little ironic coming from you considering this incident is what’s brought the most clamor to your name unlike him, whose name has been whispered more times than anyone else’s. It’s hard to believe you’re around the same age.
“I do,” he answers. “Just not the kind from annoying noblemen who don’t know when to stop.”
Something about the way he says that makes your chest tighten. You look away, down at your shoes. “I sort of get that. Kind of.”
He shifts, and you feel his gaze on you again. “You?”
You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear which gives him an unobstructed view of your side profile. “My family doesn’t see me,” you say, simply. “It’s like I’m not there until I do something wrong. Like accidentally flip a girl too hard and almost kill her. I’m not saying it wasn’t wrong. I just wish that wasn’t what it took to get them to converse with me for more than a minute.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It is.” You admit.
“I’m leaving soon, so…” He clicks his tongue, half smile pulling at his lips. “Won’t have to deal with it for much longer.”
“Leaving?” Your voice falters, but curiosity laces through it.
“Yep. Going somewhere I can actually breathe without someone hovering over my shoulder.”
You nod slowly, hugging your knees tighter. “That must be a relief.”
“Family nonsense doesn’t care which side you’re on, apparently. Some things never change.”
“Are you actually serious about leaving?”
“I wouldn’t have my shit packed already if I wasn’t. The ceremonies in a few weeks. My clan wants me to act all formal. Can’t have them looking like I’m stepping out of line. It’ll be a big show.”
You bite your lip, watching him brush it off like it’s nothing, unknowing of the excitement coursing through his veins. “You’ll be exhausted by the end of it.”
“That’s the point,” he says, grinning. “I’m done with their bullshit and expectations and whatnot. They can have their pomp and ceremony, then I’m leaving. Finally.”
You wonder if he’s always this easy about brushing off his family or if this is just tonight.
“And you? Gonna survive your statement without screaming at everybody?”
“I hope so,” you mutter.
“Perfect.” He repeats, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Yeah, right. Sure. I’ll be there, anyway. Last rule I have to follow before leaving.”
Your lips twitch into a small smile, despite the cold and the nerves curling in your stomach. “Fine, but don’t laugh at me if I mess up.”
“No promises.”
“You’ll see me there, then?” you ask, softly breaking the quiet.
“Can’t miss it,” he says, shrugging as casually as ever for someone you met half an hour ago. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure my clan doesn’t chew you out too badly.”
You laugh. “I don’t know if I want your help with that.”
“Too late.” He says, standing and dusting off his pants. “I’m already invested.”
Your eyes follow him as he rises to his full height, his silhouette cut through the moonlight. He looks… at ease, somehow, after your conversation. Not like someone about to leave everything behind.
“I should get going,” he says after a moment. “I have to go before they send someone looking for me. Ceremony prep starts early tomorrow.”
“Have fun,” you tease.
“Blah blah blah, I don’t care. I’m just going to do my thing and then get the hell out of there.”
“Don’t sound too thrilled.”
He smiles down at you, all teeth. “I’ll see you there though. Wouldn’t want to miss out on your big apology.” He adds after a beat, stretching his leg. “Don’t make it boring, okay?”
You raise an eyebrow, almost smiling. “I’ll try not to.”
“Alright. I gotta go before the old man decides to give a ten hour lecture about duty and honor and all that crap. Later.” He waves a hand, the other still in his jacket pocket, and begins to walk away.
You watch his back for a second too long before saying loud enough for him to hear, “Yeah… bye.”
“Gojo.” You call after him.
He stops and turns slightly, just enough to catch sight of you still sitting there, seemingly having no plans of moving yet.
“Good luck tomorrow.”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Then, he nods, slow. “Yeah, you too.”
And then he’s gone, swallowed by the night and the gravel under his shoes.
You stay a little while longer, the chill seeping deep into your bones.