Night cloaked the warehouse in a thick, suffocating veil. A single overhead bulb flickered erratically, casting jagged shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The smell of mold, blood, and urine hung heavy in the air, a choking blend that stung the nostrils and made the stomach turn.
Children—ragged, dirty, broken—stood in uneven rows. Their clothes were torn, smeared with grime, their eyes hollow. Some were crying softly, their sobs barely audible over the buzzing of the light. Others stared blankly ahead, lips parted, breath shallow—lost somewhere deep inside themselves. A few swayed slightly, caught in a trance of silent horror. Their bodies bore bruises, scratches, and burns—each mark a cruel reminder of the hands that had left them there.
Among them walked men with rifles slung over their shoulders, masks on their faces, but their cruelty bled through regardless. One laughed as he kicked a boy who had fallen. Another gripped a child by the jaw and forced her face upwards, examining her like livestock. But it was the loudest among them that drew all attention—the man pacing the center aisle with a look of wild rage in his eyes, his voice rough and grating.
"Shut the fuck up!" he barked, spinning on his heel toward a whimpering child. He struck without hesitation—his rifle's stock cracking across the boy's face with a sickening thud. Blood spattered, and the child crumpled silently, trembling in a fetal curl.
Then the heavy metal doors groaned open.
Another man—a trafficker like them, clad in the same gear—burst through in a panic. His face was pale, sweat pouring from his brow. His chest heaved with every breath, his eyes darting wildly, unfocused. He still clutched his gun, but there was no strength behind it, only fear.
"He... He's co—" the man began, but his words were cut short with a wet, gurgling noise.
A blade erupted from the back of his skull—long and wickedly curved, with a strange, forked design. One peak was short, the other long, giving the impression of a fanged smile. Blood didn't spray as one might expect. Instead, it oozed slowly, thick and dark, trailing down the blade in a deliberate crawl.
The hilt of the dagger wasn't held by a hand. A chain extended from it, taut and glinting, snaking upward into the shadows that clung to the rafters above. The man stood rigid, his body twitching violently, then slackened as his mouth fell open around the steel protruding from it.
Gasps erupted across the room.
The children fell silent, their sobs swallowed by a new fear. The men with guns backed away instinctively, weapons raised, but none daring to fire. Their expressions shifted—no longer cruel, but frightened. They were seasoned killers, yes, but what they saw now turned their blood to ice.
"What the fuck!" one of them shouted, voice cracking. "Toya?"
No one answered.
Toya's lifeless body jerked once—then, in an instant, was yanked upward, swallowed by the darkness above. The chain rattled as it zipped into the ceiling's shadows, dragging him out of sight before the first drop of blood had a chance to fall.
"Who... who's there?!" one of the armed men shouted, his voice trembling.
Another barked out, "Who cares?! Fire!!"
A storm of gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes lit the warehouse in strobing bursts as they emptied their clips into the shadows above. For a moment, it was pure chaos—shell casings hitting the floor, gunshots deafening, nerves fraying.
And then—silence.
From the ceiling, what remained of Toya crashed to the ground with a grotesque wet crunch. His body was a ruined mass of twisted bone and shredded meat, riddled with the very bullets meant to avenge him. Blood pooled beneath what was once their comrade.
The silence stretched—until a voice, calm and bored, spoke from right beside one of the gunmen.
"Well, there goes my appetite."
The soldier flinched violently, eyes snapping to his left. Standing next to him was a man dressed in a deep navy jacket, matching pants, and a black compression shirt that clung tightly to a frame built like a fighter. In his left hand, he held a strange dagger—the same two-peaked blade that had skewered Yoya—its chain now coiled like a serpent around his arm. In his right, a katana gleamed ominously, the guard adorned with tufts of pale fur.
"Shing! Shing!"
The air seemed to cry out as steel parted it faster than sound. Before the man could scream, his body split apart—first in pieces, then into chunks—falling like butchered meat onto the concrete.
Gasps, then panic.
"FIRE!" the remaining men screamed, turning their weapons on the stranger.
"No, the kids!" he shouted, eyes flaring.
But they had already pulled the triggers.
To them, the bullets were invisible, a blink between life and death.
To him, they were slow—sluggish lines cutting through the air. His body blurred with movement as he dove into the fray, arms flashing, legs propelling him like a predator through the dark. One by one, he snatched the children out of harm's way, shielding them, tossing them behind crates, pulling them to safety. Every step, every motion—perfect.
When the last child was safe, he landed in a crouch, katana dragging along the floor in a lazy scrape. Slowly, he rose and tilted his head, eyes narrowing at the men.
"You shot... at kids?"
His voice had dropped. Deeper. Angrier. Not yelling—but filled with the kind of fury that made silence dangerous.
"What the... wh—"
They didn't finish. The stranger moved before they could breathe. He drove his fist through two of them in a single blow—so fast, so brutal—they collided midair, their bodies slamming into the wall and exploding like overripe fruit.
For a heartbeat, the stranger stood there, arm extended, blood dripping from his knuckles. He blinked. Realization flickered across his face.
"Fuck... they'll come back as cursed spirits," he thought grimly.
Then he sighed and rolled his shoulders.
"Meh. Not my problem," he muttered.
Only one man remained. He'd dropped his weapon and was shaking, back pressed against the wall, eyes wide with pure terror.
"I'm sorry! Please let me go—I won't tell anyone! I swear—please—!"
The stranger took a single step.
To the soldier, it was teleportation. One moment, they were apart. The next, the man was right there, face inches away, his breath ice on skin.
"This isn't the MCU, kid," he whispered.
The katana flashed.
The man's head fell.
Silence settled again, thick and absolute.
The stranger turned toward the children. For a moment, his posture sagged. He looked disoriented. Then, he forced a small, awkward smile.
One of the children stared at him for a long moment—then fainted.
That same night, under the faint silver wash of moonlight, he stood on a bridge—its railing cool under his forearms. Below, a stream wound lazily through the landscape, its clear water glittering in the dark, reflecting the trimmed gardens and traditional architecture of Jujutsu Metropolitan High School. The night was quiet, broken only by the soft gurgle of the stream and the chirping of crickets.
But the peace was deceptive.
Across from him stood a larger man, broad-shouldered and dressed in dark clothes. His expression was unreadable behind tinted glasses, but the tension in his posture said enough.
"You what?" Yaga's voice boomed, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Toji let out a long sigh, not turning to face him. "Relax, Yaga. I'll go get them."
"Not before they kill people! Not to mention the children—they saw all of that!" Yaga snapped, pacing forward, the gravel beneath his shoes crunching loudly.
"So what?"
Yaga's hands clenched. "Is that really all you have to say, Zen'in?!"
Toji finally turned, one brow raised, lips curling in irritation. "First of all, it's Fushiguro. And second—come on, that wasn't their worst night. They were being trafficked, Yaga. You think they haven't already seen worse? Lived through worse?"
"That doesn't make it okay!" Yaga shot back. "It doesn't matter what they've seen—they're children. It's our job to protect them from the cruelty of this world."
Toji's gaze darkened. "Like you do these high schoolers? Or are they not child enough for you?" He stepped forward, tone growing colder. "You know what, Yaga? I've had enough of this shit. You asked me to take this job. Requested me. I didn't come knocking at your door. And now that I'm doing exactly what you needed, you treat me like some kind of dog."
His hand clenched around the railing. "So fuck this. And fuck you. If I'm such a problem, then I'll quit."
Yaga's anger faltered—not because Toji wasn't wrong, but because he realized he'd pushed too hard. The animal he'd backed into a corner was finally baring its teeth. He needed to retreat before it bit deeper.
He exhaled, the wind catching in his coat. "Look… This place—it was built to be more than a school. It's a sanctuary. A place where we try to nurture good. Yeah, we train them young, but not to make weapons. We try to shape their minds… so when they step into the world, they don't destroy it. They save it."
Toji didn't respond, but his stance shifted slightly.
Yaga lowered his voice. "I'm sorry for yelling. It's just… this line of work—it's razor thin, Toji. Between good and bad. Right and wrong. And I've seen what happens when that line gets crossed."
Toji turned away, his expression unreadable. "Whatever. I'm off."
He started walking, footsteps heavy against the wooden bridge.
Yaga called after him, "And Zen—Fushiguro!"
Toji stopped, just for a second. His back still to him.
"I wanted to tell you," Yaga said, more gently this time. "You can bring young Megumi here. He can learn a thing or two about his abilities."
Toji didn't look back. "And turn him into a weapon?"
"No," Yaga said. "To give him a family."
The wind stirred. Silence.
"He already has one," Toji replied, almost too quietly.
Yaga nodded, even though Toji couldn't see it. "Right… but if you ever want him to tap into this part of himself, to understand it—not to be used by it—the doors are open."
Toji stood still, the breeze ruffling his jacket. For a moment, Yaga wasn't sure he'd reply.
Then, without turning, Toji muttered, "I'll think about it."
And with that, he walked away—disappearing into the shadows, the moonlight brushing the hilt of his katana as he left the bridge behind.