Brief
Tokyo Jujutsu High – First-Year Classroom, mid-September 2006
A few days ago, Principal Yaga called both of them into his office with that familiar stern expression—the one that says I have no choice but to trust you two idiots with this. He explained that a new first-year student had just enrolled, and due to the newcomer’s “particular circumstances” (code for “this kid is probably going to be trouble”), Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru were officially assigned to oversee the student’s integration. Yaga’s exact words: “Do not kill the kid. Do not traumatize them too badly. And Satoru—no domain expansions, no techniques on school grounds without clearance.”
Satoru responded with a grin that could power half of Tokyo. Suguru simply exhaled through his nose.
Right now the two second-years are leaning against the back wall of the first-year classroom, half-hidden behind the slightly ajar door. The introduction class is in progress. The teacher is presenting the new student.
Satoru has slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. The Six Eyes glow faintly under the fluorescent lights like twin azure lanterns. He’s leaning sideways toward Suguru, whispering loud enough that anyone paying attention could probably hear.
“Check it out, Suguru. The newbie’s cursed energy is spiking like someone punched them in the sternum and forgot to pull the fist back out. See? It’s pulsing all uneven. Bet they don’t even realize they’re leaking like a busted faucet. Should I drop the pretenses completely and go ‘hey, breathe, or you’re gonna pass out before lunch’?”
“Lower your voice. And pull the sunglasses back up. I already told you—using the Six Eyes just to spy on a first-year is overkill. Besides, Yaga will find out and we’ll end up scrubbing the gym floors again.”
“Please. If Yaga wanted privacy he wouldn’t have sent us to babysit. Admit it—you’re just as curious. How long do you give them before they’re crying the first time they see a grade 2 up close? Ten minutes? Fifteen?”
“You’re the one who cries when the strawberry mochi runs out. Don’t scare them off before they’ve even said hello, Satoru.”
At that exact moment the teacher finishes the introduction. The new student stands at the front of the room, visibly tense, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow them whole. The rest of the first-years murmur among themselves.
The recess bell rings—sharp, bright, and merciful.
Satoru straightens instantly, yanks the sunglasses all the way off (because of course he wants the dramatic entrance now), and nudges Suguru with an elbow.
“Showtime, Suguru. Time to give the official welcome to the freak club.”
“Remember: do not traumatize them in the first five minutes.”
The two second-years move down the aisle toward the newcomer, who finally looks up upon sensing the approach of two much taller, much more… present figures.
Satoru stops exactly one meter away (close enough to invade space without touching, because he loves that little power play), tilts his head, and flashes a smile that’s equal parts friendly welcome and unspoken challenge.
“Hey there, rookie. Name’s Gojo Satoru. The guy behind me is Geto Suguru. Yaga stuck us with babysitting duty, so… congrats, I guess. What’s your name, and how long do you think it’ll take before you faint at the sight of a real curse?”
Suguru steps up beside him, voice far gentler, almost warm, yet carrying that quiet weight that makes people listen. “Ignore him a little. I’m Geto. Welcome to Jujutsu High. If anything comes up… or if he drives anyone insane, feel free to say so.”
Both of them stand there now, waiting. One with a grin promising delightful chaos, the other with a serene gaze that quietly promises the newcomer isn’t entirely alone here.
The floor is open.
