Every muscle in my body aches. The exhaustion is so deep in my bones that I’m surprised I’m even alive. Every breath I try to take feels like trying to inhale smoke through a cloth. But I am alive. Which is more than I can say for Hajime and the other candidates who now sit in piles, like they meant nothing. Never able to take another breath.

  A weight settles in my chest at the memory of Hajime. The nervous, fidgeting boy who asked if he could stick with us, who looked at me with hope in his eyes like I could save him. I told him not to try and be brave, told him what he needed to know to survive. I should’ve said it louder. I should’ve grabbed him by the shoulders and made him understand that all that matters in those fucking trials is coming out alive. I should’ve told him that pride and honour mean nothing if you’re dead.

  I squint as my eyes flutter open and I’m met with a white ceiling above me. Okay. Maybe I am dead.

  The smell of antiseptic and cigarette smoke hangs in the air. Nope, not dead. That’s Shoko’s signature smell. I’m in the medical wing. At least I’m not in whatever passes as the afterlife in this shitty world.

  I feel a tight sensation around my wrists. I glance down to find rope bindings with paper talismans attached – the standard counter measures ever since the Culling Game and whatever the fuck happened with Suguru Geto and Kenjaku taking over his body.

  The talismans glow as my cursed energy stirs back to life, then stop as if they’re satisfied that I’m not being worn like a coat by a brain stealing curse – who happens to be very fucking dead.

  I try to sit up pushing my weight onto my palms as I shimmy up the bed. Bad idea. Pain shoots through my shoulder and ribs with enough force to punch a sharp gasp from my lips. My arms tremble as I brace myself against the mattress. I must look so pathetic right now. I crumple back onto the bed and my head bounces on the pillow as I let out a frustrated hiss.

  “Stop.” The voice cuts through the haze of pain before I can attempt to try again and probably end up more injured than I already am. I tilt my head sideways to see Shiori sitting in the chair by the blue curtain separating me from the rest of the medical wing. Her arms are crossed and her teeth are clenched so hard the muscle in her jaw looks like it might snap. Her eyes are red and puffy as I meet her gaze. How long have I been half dead on this bed? Hours? Days?

  “You’re a fucking –” She cuts herself off before she calls me something I’m positive will make our mother turn in her grave.

  I grimace. I know that look. It was the same hollow look that Dad wore for weeks after Mum’s death. When he stopped being Dad and became Principal Sazama full-time. I take a sharp intake of breath that presses against the pain in my ribs.

  She thought I wasn’t going to wake up.

  “Shiori –“

  “Maximum Technique?” Her voice carries that tone of disappointment mixed with barely supressed anger. “You used your Maximum Technique during the enrolment trials. Did you shit out your brain this morning? Do you have any idea how close you were to dying?!” She closes her eyes tightly and brings her fingers to brush away the tears. “Your heart stopped twice on the way to medical. Satoshi had to call in Okkotsu to help Shoko heal you.”

  My mouth goes bone dry. I died. Twice. The words don’t quite sink in. And what’s worse Satoshi Gojo called someone to help heal me. Which doesn’t make any sense. Why would he care if I live? I should care that I had to be brought back by Shoko and Okkotsu, but I’m so tired I feel nothing but numbness about that.

  "But I didn't die."

  "You should have." She leans forward while bracing her elbows on her knees and drags both hands through her hair in a gesture of frustrated helplessness. "The medical sorcerers said you shouldn't have survived the energy drain. Your reserves were completely empty, Ren. Nothing left."

  I swallow and my throat feels like sandpaper scraped raw.

  "How long was I out?"

  "Eighteen hours." Shiori exhales sharply and finally meets my eyes with something close to fear swimming in the green depths. "It's November first. The trial results were announced six hours ago, and you've been summoned to the Higher-ups for evaluation."

  My stomach drops with the same sickening lurch you get when you miss a step going downstairs.

  "Evaluation?"

  "You're a Special Grade, Ren." Her lips press into a thin line that's probably meant to be reassuring but comes off as grim acceptance of a terrible fate. "Second in history to earn it through enrollment trials. The first one died six months later on a mission. You're a political asset now, which means you're also a target for anyone who wants to use you or anyone who sees you as a threat."

  Right, because nothing says "congratulations on surviving" quite like becoming a chess piece on the Higher-ups' board, moved around at their discretion to serve whatever political games they're playing.

  "Where's Misaka?" I ask, desperate to change the subject away from my apparently precarious existence as a newly-minted Special Grade. "Did she—"

  "Grade One. She's alive, injured but stable. She's been asking about you ever since she woke up."

  Relief floods through me with enough force to loosen the knot that's been sitting in my stomach since I woke up, and I let myself take a real breath for what feels like the first time. Misaka—the woman who made that stupid joke about parents and siblings before we walked into a killing field, who extended her hand to me at the railing and said her name like we were meeting at a social event instead of a death march—she made it out.

  "Can I see her?"

  "After the Higher-ups." Shiori's tone carries the kind of finality that leaves absolutely no room for argument, which means she's already thought about this and decided what's happening regardless of what I want. "She's in recovery two floors down with a fractured leg and second-degree burns, but she's stable and probably bored out of her mind by now."

  I nod and file that information away for later, make a mental note to find her after this political shitshow is over so I can confirm with my own eyes that she's actually okay.

  "And the scarred boy?"

  Shiori's expression darkens in a way that tells me everything I need to know before she even opens her mouth.

  "Survived. Grade Two. His name is Sora Yomizaki, and he's already making noise about 'testing' you in a sparring match to prove he should've been ranked higher."

  Fan-fucking-tastic, so he wants me dead and he's got the rank to make a formal challenge that I won't be able to refuse without looking weak.

  I close my eyes and focus on breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth, the way Fushiguro taught me when I was having panic attacks during training. Don't think about Hajime's body being dragged from Zone Two with a hole where his heart should be. Don't think about the skeletal curse's screech that felt like it was scraping the inside of my skull. Don't think about the fact that I'm now Special Grade and everyone will either want to use me or kill me, probably both.

  "Dad?"

  Shiori's jaw ticks in that particular way that means she's about to tell me something I'm not going to like.

  "He hasn't visited."

  The words hit like a guillotine blade coming down, clean and brutal, and I can't stop the flinch that follows even though I should've expected this. I recover quickly though, smoothing my face back to neutral because what did I honestly expect? Emotional availability from Noboru Sazama? A "well done, you survived" or maybe even a "I'm proud of you"? He sent me into Zone Four in front of everyone, made a public spectacle of it, and I somehow thought he'd show up at my bedside?

  "He did, however," Shiori continues with the kind of careful tone that means she's trying not to set me off, "submit a formal request to the Higher-ups that you be assigned to advanced combat training immediately with no recovery period and no adjustment time, because you're Special Grade now so you should be able to handle it."

  A bitter laugh bubbles up my throat before I can stop it.

  "Typical of Dad."

  Shiori stands abruptly and crosses to the bed where she sits on the edge of the mattress, being careful not to jostle my injuries, and her fingers trace the corner of the nearest talisman while cursed energy flickers across her palm with the distinctive shimmer of Grade One authority override. The restraints hiss softly as they deactivate and the glow on her hands fades, and she pulls them free before placing them on the side table with deliberate care, then takes my hand in hers in a gesture that's meant to ground me.

  "You're clear," she says quietly. "Medical scanned you twice for possession or cursed technique corruption. You're just exhausted, Ren. That's all."

  "Listen to me." Her green eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. "Because from where I'm sitting, you just proved to everyone in those trial grounds that you're willing to die to win, and that's exactly what Dad wants. That's what will lead to your death if you keep going down this path."

  Her words settle on my chest like a physical weight, pressing down on my ribs and making it harder to breathe.

  "I didn't have a choice, Shiori. It was use the Maximum Technique or die to four Grade One curses that were coordinating their attacks and learning from my movements."

  "And if you'd retreated? Forfeited?"

  "Then I'd be unranked with no enrollment and no place here, which means I'd have failed and proven to Dad that I wasn't strong enough to be a Sazama."

  "You'd be alive though."

  I pull my hand from hers despite the sharp protest from my shoulder that makes my vision white out for a second, because I need her to understand that staying alive wasn't an option, not really, not when the alternative was being sent home in disgrace.

  "Alive and what, Shiori? Living as a failure? Proving Dad right that I wasn't strong enough?" I shake my head and immediately regret it when the room spins. "I'd rather be Special Grade and exhausted than Grade Four and safe, because at least this way I proved I'm worth something."

  Shiori’s face crumples before she recomposes herself, but I don’t miss the way her fingers shake as she rubs the back of her neck.

  “You sound just like mum.”

  Low blow Shiori. Low fucking blow. That comparison stings more than it probably should. Mum died trying to prove that she didn’t need backup. I nearly died trying to prove that I’m worthy to bear the Sazama name. Which makes us both idiots. Both valuing pride over our own survival.

  I open my mouth to scream or cry. I haven’t decided yet. But the door to the medical wing slides open with a soft hiss, and white hair catches in the florescent lighting. Satoshi Gojo.

  He stops in the doorway with his hands shoved in his pockets and his sunglasses pushed all the way up to his eyes. His head twitches towards me before he turns to face Shiori.

  “Sazama-sama, they’re waiting for her.”

  Shiori rises from the bed and squares her shoulders, facing Satoshi dead on. Oh gods. She’s going to argue with him, and he technically outranks her, even if he is younger than her.

  “She woke up less than an hour ago. She needs more time to recover.”

  “The Higher-ups don’t care about recovery time, and Special Grade designation overrules medical leave.” Satoshi tilts his head to the ceiling and sighs. “She’s been summoned, which means she has no choice. She has to go.”

  “She can barely sit –”

  “I’ll go.”

  I grit my teeth as I bring myself to stand and they both turn to stare at me like I said I wanted to become a curse user. My eye twitches as I ignore the pain that sears through my ribs and I inhale deeply to stop the black spots that sit at the edge of my vision. My hands grip the railing of the bed. It creaks under the pressure.

  “I said I’d go.”

  Shiori’s lips part to argue or maybe call me what she wanted to earlier. But I shoot her a sharp glare that says no matter what she says I have to go.

  "I'm Special Grade now, right? Better start acting like it."

  Satoshi's jaw tightens slightly in what might be surprise or concern or annoyance, it's impossible to tell with him, but he stays quiet and watches me with an unreadable look in those Six Eyes as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the cold tile floor.

  Standing turns out to be significantly harder than I expected, hard enough that my legs shake and I think for a second that I might actually collapse, but I force myself to exhale and straighten my spine while rolling my shoulders back and ignoring the fresh wave of pain that threatens to send me back to the mattress. I meet Satoshi's gaze with what I hope looks like confidence instead of barely-controlled desperation.

  "Lead the way, Gojo."

  His eyes narrow behind the sunglasses in a way that could be concern or suspicion or both.

  "Try not to pass out before we get there, Sazama," he quips over his shoulder as he turns toward the door.

  Shiori grips my arm hard enough to hurt before I can take a step.

  "If you feel even a little faint, you sit down immediately. Understood?"

  I nod because arguing would take energy I don't have, and she doesn't look convinced but she releases me anyway, probably because she knows that trying to stop me at this point would be futile.

  Satoshi heads for the door and I follow, discovering very quickly that each step is a monumental effort to keep my legs from buckling underneath me like a newborn deer trying to walk for the first time. Shiori moves to follow behind me, probably to catch me when I inevitably fall, but Satoshi steps into her path like an immovable object and his presence fills the doorway like a physical barrier.

  "You do not have the clearance to be in the evaluation meeting." His voice is empty of inflection, almost bureaucratic, like he's reciting policy rather than actually caring about the rules.

  Shiori's eyes narrow dangerously.

  "She needs me there to keep her standing, because in case you haven't noticed, she can barely walk."

  "Fushiguro will be present at the meeting, as will your father. If she requires a break, one of those two will grant it."

  Shiori clenches her jaw and her eyes flick to me, and something in her expression cracks—something close to fear or helplessness or maybe just the realization that she can't protect me from this.

  "If you collapse, you send for me immediately," she says quietly enough that only I can hear. "I'll be close by."

  "Let's go, Sazama." Satoshi's voice carries an edge of impatience.

  The corridor outside the medical wing is empty, which makes sense because faculty are probably in classes and the newly ranked sorcerers are likely being processed through whatever bureaucratic nightmare the administration has set up for them. We walk in uncomfortable silence, or rather he walks with his usual confident stride while I limp along behind him trying not to look as pathetic as I feel.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "You carried me out of the trial zone," I say to break the oppressive quiet, because apparently I can't leave well enough alone.

  Satoshi doesn't break stride or even glance back at me.

  "You were unconscious and someone had to do it."

  "That's what the medical team is for though."

  "They were occupied with other survivors who were still breathing, which was a higher priority than someone who'd just used a Maximum Technique and depleted their entire cursed energy reserves." His tone is clipped and detached like I'm some inconvenience he's obligated to deal with rather than a person, and I have to bite back the retort that rises in my throat because getting into an argument with Satoshi Gojo while I can barely stand seems like a spectacularly bad idea.

  "Thank you."

  He freezes mid-step and turns to look at me, and for the first time since we left the medical wing he actually locks eyes with me as his sunglasses slide down his nose enough that I catch the full weight of those Six Eyes.

  "Don't thank me," he says quietly with something in his voice that sounds almost like anger. "I didn't do it for you."

  He turns and continues down the corridor before I can even formulate a response to whatever the fuck that means, leaving me standing there processing the bizarre interaction while he walks away. Then I follow because what else am I going to do, collapse in the hallway and prove everyone right that I'm not ready for this?

  We arrive outside the meeting room and Satoshi turns to face me just as my legs start wobbling badly enough that I have to grip the doorframe to steady myself.

  "If you want my advice—"

  "I don't," I cut him off, because what is with this guy and his constant hot-and-cold bullshit that I absolutely do not have the energy to deal with right now. If I survive the Higher-ups, I'm asking Shiori if emotional whiplash is just a standard Gojo clan trait.

  "Well, fuck you too then." He scowls at me and reaches for the door handle, and his hand hovers over it for just a second in what might be hesitation before he pushes it open.

  The door reveals a traditional room with tatami mat flooring and five Higher-ups sitting in a circle behind shoji screens that obscure everything except their silhouettes, which is apparently how they prefer to conduct business despite the fact that we're living in 2049 and they could easily use video conferencing. The lighting is terrible—just candles flickering in the gloom—and these political pricks are still keeping their identities hidden like we're in some kind of feudal court instead of a modern institution.

  Dad stands off to the side with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face, and Fushiguro-sensei steps out from a darkened corner to stand behind me in what I recognise as a protective position even if he can't actually do anything to help. Satoshi takes up position beside me and goes completely still in that way he has that makes him look more like a statue than a person.

  One of the Higher-ups speaks first, a woman based on the voice that carries through the screen.

  "Gojo-san, remain present. This evaluation concerns your future assignment."

  Satoshi inclines his head in acknowledgment.

  "Understood," he says with a voice so flat it could be used as a level.

  That's it? No argument, no resentment, no pushback at all? Maybe he's just smart enough to know that fighting the Higher-ups is pointless, or maybe he genuinely doesn't care what they assign him to do.

  "Ren Sazama." An older-sounding man speaks from behind his screen, and I hear the distinct rustle of paper being shuffled. "You have shown exceptionally high levels of cursed energy output, and you used a Maximum Technique which has enough destructive force to decimate a city block." There's a faint hint of awe in his voice that makes my skin crawl.

  "Principal Sazama," the woman says, addressing my father. "Your daughter's performance was... extraordinary. What's your assessment?"

  Dad refuses to look at me, keeps his eyes fixed on some point on the opposite wall.

  "She survived, which is the minimum requirement for passing the trials. Whether she can maintain that level of performance under sustained pressure remains to be seen."

  The minimum requirement. Is he being fucking serious right now? My ribs ache and my shoulder screams and I nearly died twice, but all he can say is that I met the minimum requirement like I barely scraped by instead of destroying four Grade One curses.

  "Your Maximum Technique," a different Higher-up says. "What's the effective radius?"

  "Fifty meters inside the barrier," I say, and my palms start sweating because I know where this is going.

  "And outside the barrier?"

  I hesitate because they want numbers and data like I'm a cursed tool they're evaluating instead of a person, and giving them accurate information feels like handing them ammunition.

  "Estimate," the woman presses when I don't answer immediately.

  "Two hundred meters, possibly more depending on environmental factors."

  A ripple of murmurs breaks out among the Higher-ups behind their screens.

  "City-block level destruction," someone mutters.

  "Acceptable collateral damage parameters for curse eradication scenarios in the dead zones," another responds like they're discussing something mundane instead of my capacity to kill hundreds of people.

  They're discussing casualties and acceptable losses like weather patterns, and I knew the system was brutal but I've never seen the machinery up close like this, never watched them reduce human lives to statistics and strategic calculations.

  "The last sorcerer to achieve Special Grade through the enrollment trials was Kaito Yamada," a smooth voice states with the kind of casual precision that suggests they've rehearsed this. "He eliminated all Grade One curses in Zone Four, and then when another candidate fled their zone into his, he eliminated them as well. You only eliminated the curses in your zone. Do you believe that you're operating at your full potential?"

  Are they actually taking the piss right now? They think I'm not at full potential because I didn't murder another sorcerer who was running for their life? Don't they understand that killing other sorcerers doesn't achieve anything except turning us into the emotionless killing machines they apparently want us to be, and that's a road I absolutely refuse to go down?

  I haven't answered them and the silence is stretching too long, but what am I supposed to say? If I claim I'm at full potential, I'm lying and they'll know it. If I admit I'm not, I'm showing weakness.

  "Answer the question, Sazama-san." The woman's voice carries an edge of impatience. "Do you believe you're operating at your full potential?"

  "I survived four Grade One curses with a technique I'd never used in actual combat before," I say carefully, trying to navigate the trap I can feel closing around me. "I'd say that demonstrates—"

  "We didn't ask what you survived. We asked about your potential."

  It's a trap and I walked right into it.

  "I can improve," I say finally, which seems like the safest answer.

  "Again, that's not what we asked."

  I furrow my brows and tap my fingers against my thigh while trying to figure out what answer they actually want, because clearly they've already decided something and they're just waiting for me to say it. Fine, they want an answer?

  "No, I'm not at full potential. I've barely scratched the surface of what Atmospheric Manipulation can do."

  "Pity," the woman sneers in a way that suggests she's not actually disappointed at all. "However, it does mean you have significant room for growth, and we wish to ensure that you reach that potential quickly."

  I glance at Fushiguro-sensei and he gives me the slightest shake of his head, which I interpret as: don't push back, don't argue, just play along.

  "We're assigning you to Gojo-san for advanced combat training and cursed technique development," another Higher-up announces like this is already decided and they're just informing me as a courtesy.

  My eyes flick to Satoshi and his expression stays perfectly neutral with no surprise or resentment visible, almost like he knew this was coming before we even walked into the room.

  "He achieved Special Grade designation at seventeen when his technique awakened. If anyone can accelerate your development, it's him." The woman's tone makes it abundantly clear that this isn't a partnership or a mentorship—it's a leash on both of us.

  "I accept the assignment," Satoshi replies before anyone even asks him, and his compliance is so immediate and unremarkable that the Higher-ups' silhouettes turn to look at each other like they're pleased with themselves for being able to control the Gojo heir so thoroughly. They don't seem to notice the ghost of something sharp that crosses Satoshi's face when they look away, gone so fast you'd miss it if you blinked, but I caught it.

  He's not their weapon—he's letting them think he is, and there's a difference.

  "You will begin training in three days with joint exercises, combat scenarios, and combined missions."

  My ribs scream in protest at the thought of combat training in three days when I can barely stand right now, and I notice Fushiguro-sensei exhale sharply behind me in what sounds like frustration or concern.

  "She's been conscious for less than two hours," Fushiguro says with his voice tight and controlled. "Her cursed energy reserves are depleted and medical protocol recommends at least a week of recovery before—"

  "Medical protocol," the woman interrupts, "is for lower-ranked sorcerers. Special Grades recover faster, and reverse cursed technique will accelerate her healing."

  I don't actually have reverse cursed technique, but pointing that out would be admitting weakness and that seems like a bad idea right now.

  "She'll adapt," the gruff voice adds with the kind of casual dismissal that makes it clear they don't actually care whether I survive this. "Or she won't. Either way, we need results."

  "An excellent decision," Dad says, breaking his silence before anyone can ask for his opinion.

  My head snaps toward him so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Excellent? He thinks this is excellent?

  "Gojo-san's technique mastery is unmatched among active Special Grades. If Ren is to reach her potential, she needs exposure to the highest level of combat application."

  My jaw drops and my breath hitches because he's actively supporting this plan despite knowing what the Gojo clan did to Mum, despite his well-documented disdain for the Gojo heir, and he's actually endorsing the idea of Satoshi training me. I snap my jaw shut with an audible click.

  "I'm glad you agree," the woman says with genuine surprise colouring her voice.

  "Ren will benefit from training with someone who won't coddle her, and Gojo-san certainly won't do that." He speaks with a flat tone that carries an undercurrent of something I can't quite identify.

  He wants Satoshi to break me down and rebuild me stronger, or maybe just break me entirely—it's hard to tell with Dad.

  The Higher-ups stay silent for a moment that stretches uncomfortably.

  "Now regarding deployment parameters," a gruff voice begins. "Special Grade designation typically grants autonomous mission selection, however given Sazama-san's... inexperience, we're implementing temporary restrictions."

  I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.

  "For the first six months, all mission assignments will require Higher-up approval with no autonomous deployment and absolutely no solo operations."

  "That's not standard protocol," Fushiguro-sensei says quietly from behind me.

  "Standard protocol is for sorcerers who've earned their rank through years of field work," the woman counters. "Not for teenagers who got lucky in a trial."

  Got lucky? I nearly died, my heart stopped twice, and I'm apparently lucky?

  "Additionally," the gruff voice continues as his silhouette shifts, "all joint operations with Gojo-san will be monitored and we'll require detailed reports on technique development, combat performance, and strategic decision-making."

  Great, so I'm being put under surveillance through Satoshi, which means every training session and every mission will be documented and analysed.

  "There has been a discussion," the smooth voice says with careful deliberation, "about transferring Sazama-san to Kyoto Jujutsu High for diversified training."

  My heart stops completely for what feels like the third time in two days.

  "The last time two Special Grades were stationed at the same institution, one of those sorcerers defected and became a curse user," another Higher-up adds. "Some of us wish to prevent this kind of situation from arising again, and geographic distribution would be more strategically sound."

  So they want me to work with Satoshi but also they're considering shipping me off to Kyoto? They're contradicting themselves, or more likely they're fighting amongst themselves about who gets control of their shiny new weapon.

  "Tokyo has superior facilities and personnel for Special Grade development," Dad cuts in with a hard edge to his voice that I haven't heard since Mum died. "Transferring her would be inefficient."

  "Or," the woman counters, "you're protecting your asset."

  "She is my daughter, not an asset."

  The room freezes and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.

  I stare at the back of Dad's head in complete shock, because this is the same man who sent me into Zone Four in front of everyone, who hasn't visited me in the medical wing, who just told the Higher-ups I met the minimum requirement, and he's drawing a line in the sand over me?

  This is the first time since Mum died that he's chosen me over his principles, over his reputation, over his carefully constructed image of brutal pragmatism.

  "She will remain in Tokyo under my supervision, and that is non-negotiable," he continues with a voice like steel.

  The Higher-ups sit in tense silence because they clearly weren't expecting resistance from Noboru Sazama, who's spent seven years building a reputation for being willing to sacrifice anyone and anything for the greater good.

  Fushiguro-sensei exhales slowly behind me and he seems just as confused as I am by this sudden display of paternal protection.

  "Very well," the woman says carefully after a long pause. "For now."

  "Regarding active deployment," the gruff voice begins, "we're assigning Sazama-san to the Tokyo dead zone clearance initiative."

  My blood runs cold because the dead zones are where cursed spirits roam freely without barriers, where the death rate for sorcerers is astronomical, and assigning a barely-recovered Special Grade to that initiative is either suicide or strategic murder.

  "She's not ready for dead zone deployment," Fushiguro-sensei says with barely controlled anger in his voice.

  "She has city-block level destructive capability, which is exactly what we need in the dead zones," the woman responds.

  "She can barely stand—"

  "She'll adapt or she won't. Either way, we need results."

  Fushiguro's jaw ticks but he backs down because he doesn't have the authority to prevent this, and no doubt he'll be punished later for this outburst.

  "Initial deployment is scheduled for two weeks from today," the gruff voice continues. "Joint operation with Gojo-san for Special Grade curse elimination in the Shibuya sector."

  Shibuya, where Satoru Gojo was sealed and everything went to absolute shit during the incident that kicked off the collapse of the jujutsu world as it existed before.

  "There is one final matter," the smooth voice says. "We'd like Sazama-san to enter a binding vow with the institution."

  My mouth goes dry because binding vows have severe consequences if they're broken, consequences that range from loss of cursed technique to actual death depending on the terms.

  "What kind of vow?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

  "A strategic deployment vow requiring you to complete all Higher-up assigned missions, not defect to hostile enemies, and submit technique development reports as required. In exchange, you receive full institutional support and Special Grade operational authority and funding after your probation period."

  I swallow hard.

  "That's—"

  "Standard for all Special Grade designations," the woman interrupts before I can finish. "The terms are non-negotiable. Lower-ranked sorcerers enter simpler vows covering basic loyalty and non-aggression, but Special Grades require mission accountability given their capacity for mass destruction."

  "What happens if I refuse?"

  "Immediate revocation of your rank, removal from Jujutsu High, and you'd be monitored as a security risk for the rest of your life."

  "And if I break the vow?"

  A tense silence falls over the room like a funeral shroud.

  "You would be subject to cursed technique removal," the smooth voice replies with the kind of clinical detachment used to discuss surgical procedures. "You would become powerless."

  Powerless means dead because the first curse I encounter would kill me without my technique to defend myself.

  "All ranked sorcerers accept these terms," the woman adds. "Gojo-san, your sister, every Special Grade currently active—you are not being singled out."

  Then why does it feel like I am?

  "The vow requires verbal agreement," the gruff voice states. "Do you, Ren Sazama, accept these terms?"

  I glance at Dad and he slowly blinks before giving me the slightest nod, and Fushiguro-sensei goes rigid behind me, and I realize that no one is going to save me from this because no one can.

  “I accept.”

  A wave of nausea rolls over me as I feel pressure pushing against my chest. It’s like something has reached in and wrapped wire around my heart. I guess that’s what a binding vow feels like. Lovely. I hope I never have to feel that again in my life.

  I’m now bound to the Higher-ups and Jujutsu society. I might as well wear a collar that says property of jujutsu society. What a fucking joke.

  Approval flashes in Dad’s eyes and I clench my teeth.

  “The binding vow is now complete.” The woman announces. The other Higher-ups’ silhouettes nod in agreement behind their shoji screens. “Make sure that you fulfil your obligations and duties to Jujutsu society, Sazama-san.”

  Her words ring in my head and the pressure in my chest lightens. At least I don’t have to constantly feel that. I try to nod but the room spins violently and my vision almost blacks out. Shit. Not here. Not now.

  “Regarding your mission schedule –”

  My knees buckle and I start to fall, the candles flicker like they’re laughing at me as strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. Fushiguro-sensei.

  "That's enough," he snaps with his voice cutting through the Higher-ups' meeting with enough authority that they actually go silent. "She's done."

  "We're not finished—"

  "Yes, you are."

  Everything tilts sideways and I hear shouting but it all sounds distant and muffled like I'm trying to listen to voices through a wall, and then I feel my weight being lifted as someone carries me out of the room. The ceiling passes overhead in a blur.

  "—can't keep doing this to them—"

  "—not your concern, Fushiguro—"

  "—she's eighteen years old—"

  The voices fade completely and cold wood presses against my back, which means I'm on the floor now. I'm on the floor in the hallway outside the meeting room but I don't remember how we got here.

  "Ren, stay with me." Fushiguro-sensei's voice is close and worried in a way I've never heard from him before. "Can you hear me?"

  I force my eyes open and the hallway swims into focus with too-bright fluorescent lights and Fushiguro's concerned face hovering above me.

  "Yeah," I rasp.

  "Don't move. I'm getting Shoko to check you over."

  "'M fine."

  "You passed out in the middle of a Higher-ups meeting."

  Oh. Right.

  Slow and deliberate footsteps approach from down the hallway, definitely not Shoko based on the measured pace.

  "She collapsed?" Satoshi's voice rings out flat and void of any emotion, like he's commenting on cursed energy theory.

  "She's been awake for less than two hours after complete cursed energy depletion," Fushiguro-sensei says tightly with barely controlled anger seeping into his professional tone. "And they interrogated her for an hour straight and forced her to enter a binding vow. What did you expect?"

  "I expected them to have basic sense and not push an eighteen-year-old past her breaking point, but clearly I was wrong."

  "Can you stay with her while I go find Shoko?"

  Satoshi exhales sharply in what might be frustration.

  "Fine."

  Fushiguro-sensei's footsteps fade into the distance and I hear Satoshi edge closer, though he doesn't crouch down to my level, just stands there looking down at me. I'm too exhausted to care about the power dynamic.

  "You really don't know when to quit, do you?" he says finally, and I manage to turn my head to look up at him through half-lidded eyes.

  "Doesn't seem like an option in this place."

  "It's always an option," he counters coldly. "You just don't take it."

  "Says the guy who lets them order him around without a single word of protest," the words come out like vomit before I can stop them and shit, I definitely overstepped. He clenches his teeth.

  "That's not your concern."

  I huff but don't press further because he's right—it's not my concern, so why do I care that he doesn't push back against the Higher-ups?

  Silence stretches between us like a physical thing.

  "They're sending us to Shibuya."

  "I know."

  "You know what happened there."

  "I'm well aware."

  Satoshi runs his fingers through his messy white hair in what might be the first genuine gesture of frustration I've seen from him.

  "Try not to die before then, Sazama."

  My brows furrow and I purse my lips because why does he care? I thought he hated me, wanted me dead, or at minimum wanted nothing to do with me. Then I remember what he said after the trials.

  "What did you mean?" I ask, because apparently I can't leave well enough alone. "When you said you didn't carry me out for me?"

  He stills and looks at me with an expression I can't read at all.

  "Does it matter?"

  "Yes."

  He stays quiet for a long moment while his Six Eyes study me with an intensity that makes me squirm.

  "Figure it out yourself, Sazama."

  He turns his back to me and starts walking away, leaving me with more questions than answers and a growing headache.

  Fushiguro-sensei returns with Shoko and another medical sorcerer in tow, and they lift me onto a stretcher while I hear Satoshi's footsteps receding down the hallway. I stare at the ceiling as they wheel me back to the medical wing, and the only thing running through my head is Satoshi's cryptic response.

  Figure it out yourself.

  What the fuck does that mean?