The café was a pocket of calm in Tokyo's seething heart, sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains to dapple the table where Satoru Gojo lounged. His long legs stretched into the aisle, one hand scrolling lazily through his phone while the other spun a sugar cube between his fingers. Outside, the city roared—honking cars, chattering crowds, the tinny jingle of convenience store doors—but here, time bent around him like spacetime around a singularity. His sunglasses perched low on his nose, revealing slivers of crystalline blue eyes flickering across memes and mission reports with equal disinterest.

The bell above the door chimed.

Gojo didn't look up, but his smirk sharpened a fraction. "Suguruuuu," he drawled, popping the sugar cube into his mouth. "You're stomping like a cursed spirit with a grudge. Ruining the vibe."

Geto Suguru loomed over the table, his shadow swallowing the dappled light. His hair, ink-black and loosely tied, framed a face carved from marble—all sharp angles and deeper scowls. "The only vibe here is your impending death by caffeine," he said, nodding at the seven empty espresso cups littering the table.

"Ah, but what a way to go!" Gojo finally glanced up, grin dazzling and deliberately infuriating. "Besides, you're one to talk. Still rocking the 'brooding revolutionary' look, I see. Very edgy. Very mid-2000s."

Geto's jaw twitched. "Mission. Now."

"Mission-schmission." Gojo spun his phone on the table, the screen flashing a paused game of Candy Crush. "Can't you feel it, Suguru? The universe is telling us to take a self-care day. Get facials. Maybe hit an onsen. You'd look less... tense."

The café's ambient chatter died as Geto's cursed energy spiked—a dark, oily ripple that made the lights flicker. A barista dropped a saucer.

Gojo sighed, stretching until his spine cracked. "Fine, fine. But you're buying me mochi after this." He rose in one fluid motion, all six feet of him unfolding like a lazy panther. The sunglasses slid back into place, sealing away infinity.

They stepped into the street, the autumn air biting with the tang of diesel and dying leaves. Geto marched ahead, a stormcloud in human form, while Gojo ambled behind, tossing a konpeito candy into the air and catching it in his teeth.

"Sooo," Gojo drawled, sidestepping a salaryman, "what's the gig? Special-grade curse? Rogue sorcerer cult? Oh! Did Gakuganji finally snap and start a boy band? I've got bets riding on that, you know—"

Geto thrust his phone at him. The screen showed a girl—late teens, sharp cheekbones, eyes like smoldering coals. Her photo was grainy, stolen from a security cam, but the energy crackling around her fingertips wasn't.

Gojo froze. For a heartbeat, the playfulness bled out of him. "Well, well," he murmured, zooming in. The girl's aura pulsed in the digital noise, a kaleidoscope even through pixels. "Who's our mystery protagonist?"

"Y/N L/N." Geto pocketed the phone. "First-year at U.A. High. Quirk: Omni-Shift. Supposedly."

Gojo whistled. "Shapeshifting? Cute. But that's not cursed energy."

"No." Geto's gaze cut sideways. "But according to our esteemed informants, she's been spotted exorcizing curses without a Quirk. No technique. No incantations. Just... raw force."

The konpeito candy cracked between Gojo's teeth. Sweetness flooded his tongue. "Interesting."

"The higher-ups want her. They think she's a natural jujutsu user. A diamond in the hero-course rough." Geto's lip curled. "They want us to... recruit her."

Gojo's grin returned, sharper now. "Aw, Suguru. You say that like it's a bad thing." He flung an arm around Geto's shoulders, ignoring his growl. "Think of it as a field trip! We'll check out the kiddos, eat stadium snacks, maybe snag a future powerhouse for the cause. Fun!"

Geto shrugged him off. "This isn't a game. If she's truly channeling cursed energy without training..."

"Then she's either a prodigy," Gojo interjected, twirling a finger, "or a time bomb. Yeah, yeah. But where's your sense of adventure?" He spun ahead, walking backward to face Geto. The streetlights haloed his white hair, turning him into a silhouette of pure audacity. "C'mon. Admit it. You're curious."

Geto said nothing. But his silence was answer enough.

Gojo laughed, loud and bright, drawing stares from passing schoolgirls. "That's the spirit! Now—" He tossed Geto a konpeito. "—let's go meet our future student. Or disaster. Potato, potahto."

As they melted into the crowd, the girl's image lingered between them—a question mark scribbled in fire.

SCENEBREAK

The training grounds blurred at the edges of your vision, your lungs burning like you'd swallowed embers. Aizawa's voice sliced through the roar of your pulse, sharp as the training dagger in your grip. "You're going faster, L/N."

It wasn't praise—not exactly. Aizawa never praised. It was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown. You could almost see his shadow flickering at the periphery, his black capture scarf fluttering like a specter's shroud as he pushed ahead. The wooden weapon in your hand felt heavier with every step, its edges biting into your palm, but you clung to it like an anchor.

This wasn't hero training. This was jujutsu—brutal, unrelenting, a dance with shadows most couldn't see. Every sprint through the obstacle course, every strike at the cursed-energy dummies, dragged you deeper into a world that demanded blood and sweat as currency.

The bell's shrill cry cut through the air, and your knees nearly buckled. You braced a hand against the wall, chest heaving, sweat stinging your eyes. The courtyard spun, autumn leaves cartwheeling in the wind like ash from a pyre.

Aizawa materialized beside you, his breathing steady, infuriatingly calm. He shrugged on his weathered black jacket, the movement effortless. "Go on," he said, nodding toward the main building. "You've got normal classes now. Remember?"

You swallowed a retort, your throat raw. Normal. As if anything about your life was normal now. But you nodded, slinging your bag over a shoulder that screamed in protest.

The halls of U.A. buzzed with post-training chatter, the scent of antiseptic and burnt sugar (thanks to Lunch Rush's latest experiment) hanging thick. Rounding the corner, you froze.

Izuku leaned against a locker, his right arm cradled in a sling, bandages peeking out from under his sleeve like poorly wrapped secrets. Bakugo loomed nearby, his usual scowl etched deeper, hands shoved in pockets as if to contain their sparks. Their voices were hushed, tense—a stark contrast to the cacophony around them.

What happened? The question clawed at your ribs. You'd been yanked from battle training for another "special session" with Aizawa, another hour of jujutsu drills that left you seeing double. Now, this.

You slid into their space, shoulders brushing Izuku's. "What's going on here?" you asked, voice cool, controlled—the mask Aizawa had hammered into you.

Bakugo's crimson eyes flashed. "None of your damn business, Shapeshifter."

But Izuku's smile—small, strained, yet achingly genuine—stopped your sharp reply. "J-Just a sparring accident," he said, flexing his good hand like he could wave away the concern. "All Might said it's nothing serious."

The bandages told a different story. Faint scorch marks marred the fabric. Bakugo's work, you realized, your grip tightening on your bag strap.

"Looks serious to me," you said, gaze locking with Bakugo's. He bared his teeth but said nothing, the unspoken "Try me" hanging between you.

Izuku shifted, wincing as the sling shifted. "Really, it's okay! Recovery Girl already patched me up. I'll be back to normal by tomorrow!"

You wanted to press, to demand details, but the warning bell trilled. Students surged past, a river of uniforms and laughter. Bakugo shouldered past you, muttering "Move it, extras," as he stormed off.

Izuku lingered, his smile softening. "Thanks for worrying," he said, so quiet you almost missed it.

"Someone's gotta," you replied, nudging his uninjured arm with yours. "Heroes make terrible patients."

He laughed, the sound brittle but warm, and for a moment, the weight of jujutsu and secrets faded. But as you walked to class, Aizawa's words echoed in your skull—normal classes—and you wondered which part of this life would fracture first: the hero, the sorcerer, or the girl caught between.

SCENEBREAK

The hallway was eerily quiet now, the fluorescent lights flickering like dying stars. The echoes of Present Mic's booming praise still clung to the air, but they felt hollow against the static hum building in your skull. You leaned against the cold tile wall, fingertips pressing into the surface until your knuckles whitened. Why does it feel like the walls are breathing?

Then—light.

A searing flash split the air, not from above but from within, as if your own ribs had cracked open to spill daylight. You stumbled back, arms raised instinctively, your Quirk flaring to life in a ripple of shapeshifting energy. But before you could shift, the light dimmed, coalescing into a figure.

Tall. White-haired. Smirking like he'd just won the lottery and burned the ticket.

"Well, well, there you are, Y/N," he purred, hands tucked casually in his pockets as if he'd strolled out of a daydream. His sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing eyes like fractured Arctic ice—piercing, endless, wrong. "I knew you were good, but damn, you've come a long way."

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. The air tasted metallic, charged like the seconds before a lightning strike. "Who are you, bud?" you demanded, forcing steel into your voice even as your Quirk writhed beneath your skin, restless.

Another voice answered, velvet-smooth and laced with shadows. "We're jujutsu sorcerers."

The dark-haired man materialized beside him, his presence a counterweight—calm where the white-haired one crackled with chaotic charm. His smile was a knife wrapped in silk. "You're quite skilled, Y/N. But we know you're capable of much more." He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle. "We can teach you things these heroes..." He gestured vaguely toward the U.A. emblem on your sleeve. "...couldn't begin to comprehend."

The white-haired man—Gojo, your mind supplied, though you couldn't recall why—stepped closer. The floorboards groaned under his weight, or maybe it was the world itself protesting his presence. "Think of it as an upgrade," he said, grin sharpening. "Heroes play with fire. Sorcerers dance in the ashes."

Your breath hitched. The walls seemed to pulse, the posters of All Might and Endeavor curling at the edges like they'd been singed. This isn't a Quirk, you realized. This was something older, darker, a language written in cursed energy and blood.

"Why me?" you whispered, your voice raw.

Gojo's smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. "Because you're hungry," he said softly, almost kindly. "And that hunger? It's gonna eat you alive if you stay here."

Geto's hand rested on Gojo's shoulder, a silent command. "The curses are evolving, Y/N. Growing stronger. And there's a storm coming even U.A. can't weather." His gaze hardened. "You can be a hero and a weapon. Or you can be a casualty. Your choice."

The offer hung between you, suffocating. You thought of Aizawa's exhausted eyes, Izuku's bandaged arm, Bakugo's furious spark—your world, fragile and bright. But beneath it all, the itch you'd tried to ignore, the one that Quirks couldn't scratch.

Gojo snapped his fingers, and the hallway snapped back into focus—lights steady, posters pristine, as if the last two minutes had been scrubbed from reality. "Tick-tock, superstar," he singsonged, already turning away. "We'll be in touch."

They vanished, leaving only the scent of ozone and a slip of black paper at your feet. On it, a single address glowed blood-red.

You pocketed it, your hands trembling.

Hungry.

The word followed you long after the bell rang.