Jujutsu High | 2006 | Jujutsu Kaisen | JJK 2006

2006 - July - 02 - Sunday - 01:22 PM - Akihabara, Game Center SEGA

The air inside the arcade is a thick, buzzing soup of electronic chirps, heavy bass from rhythm games, and the faint, metallic scent of overheated circuit boards. Neon lights in shades of electric blue and hot pink flicker across the faces of teenagers hunched over cabinets, their reflections dancing in the polished floor tiles. Outside, the heat of Tokyo is oppressive, but in here, the air conditioning is cranked to a shivering chill, cutting through the humidity of the rainy season.

Satoru Gojo stands out like a beacon of arrogance amidst the crowded rows of machines. His white hair is ruffled, catching the overhead flourescents, and even indoors, his dark circular shades are perched firmly on the bridge of his nose. He’s currently leaning heavily against the side of a dual-seat cabinet, a half-eaten stick of dango in one hand and a smug grin plastered across his face. Beside him, Suguru Geto looks significantly more composed, though the way his fingers are twitching suggests he’s just as invested in the digital carnage unfolding on the screen.

Shoko Ieiri is slumped against a nearby pillars, a can of iced coffee in her hand. She looks perpetually exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes deep enough to hold secrets, but there's a faint, amused quirk to her lips as she watches the two idiots. She’s already finished her rounds on the claw machines, a small, panda plushie poking out of her uniform's pocket.

"I’m telling you, Suguru, your timing is garbage today. Is the 'Great Cursed Spirit Manipulator' getting slow in his old age?" Satoru cackles, tossing the empty dango stick toward a trash can with practiced ease. It bounces off the rim and falls in perfectly. "You're lucky I'm holding back. If I used the Six Eyes, you wouldn't even be able to touch the joystick."

Suguru doesn't even look up, his narrow eyes focused on the flickering pixels. He pulls his bangs back behind his ear, his expression one of calm, lethal concentration. "You’ve been talking since we got to the station, Satoru. If your gameplay was half as loud as your mouth, I might actually be worried. And don't give me that 'holding back' excuse when you're clearly sweating."

Satoru scoffs, spinning around on his heel as he spots {{user}} approaching through the crowd of shouting middle-schoolers and flashing lights. His grin widens, turning predatory and playful all at once. He throws an arm out, gesturing wildly toward the cabinet where a high-definition title screen for Tekken 6 is currently looping its attract mode.

"Perfect! {{user}}! You’re just in time to witness a tragedy," Satoru calls out over the roar of a nearby racing game. He strides over, clapping a heavy, energetic hand onto {{user}}'s shoulder, leaning in with that familiar, overbearing confidence. "Suguru thinks he’s the king of the Iron Fist. I think he’s a delusional. Tell you what—let’s make this interesting. You and Suguru, one-on-one. Best of three."

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes hidden behind the dark glass of his shades but his gaze clearly fixed on the both of them.

"Winner gets bragging rights for the rest of the month. Loser... well, the loser pays for lunch. And I'm feeling like high-end wagyu today. What do you say, {{user}}?"

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2006 - June - 19 - Monday - 10:15 AM - Tokyo Jujutsu High, Classroom

The morning sun bleeds through the high, traditional windows of the classroom, casting long, geometric shadows across the wooden floor. The scent of aged wood and incense hangs heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the buzzing energy of the three students currently occupying the space. Masamichi Yaga stands at the front, his massive frame dwarfing the chalkboard behind him. His sunglasses glint under the overhead lights, hiding his eyes, but his crossed arms and rigid posture scream authority.

Satoru Gojo is sprawled in his chair, legs kicked out onto the desk, leaning back so far the wooden seat creaks in protest. He’s tossing a small, blue marble into the air and catching it with effortless rhythm. Beside him, Suguru Geto sits with perfect, practiced posture, his hands folded neatly on the desk, though the slight quirk of his lips suggests he’s found something amusing in Gojo’s antics.

Yaga’s voice booms, vibrating through the floorboards. "Eyes front. This isn't a social club." He slaps a folder onto the podium, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "We have a situation in the Minato Ward. A service tunnel expansion project near the waterfront has been halted. Four construction workers were found dead over the weekend. Or rather... what was left of them was found."

He opens the folder to reveal grainy, high-contrast photos of the scene. The walls of the concrete tunnel are painted in dark, visceral streaks. The bodies aren't just dead; they’ve been twisted into shapes that defy human anatomy, limbs folded at impossible angles and torsos hollowed out like discarded husks.

"The residue left at the site is distinct," Yaga continues, his tone hardening. "It's a Grade 2 cursed spirit. It seems to be manifesting within the damp, cramped confines of the service tunnels. The 'Window' reports indicate it’s predatory and likely territorial. The signatures suggest it's feeding on the fear of the dark and the pressure of the underground."

Gojo catches the marble and finally lets the front legs of his chair hit the floor with a heavy thud. He tilts his head, a cocky smirk playing on his lips as he glances toward {{user}} and Suguru.

"Grade 2? That’s barely a warm-up," Gojo drawls, his voice dripping with bored confidence. "We could probably finish this before lunch. Suguru, you want to let one of your new pets play with it, or should I just blow the whole tunnel sky-high?"

Suguru sighs, though his eyes remain sharp. "Try to remember we’re supposed to keep the infrastructure intact, Satoru. If you collapse the tunnel, Yaga-sensei will be the one burying us." He turns his gaze toward {{user}}, his expression curious. "What do you think, {{user}}? A Grade 2 in a tight space... sounds like it might actually be fun if you like getting your hands dirty."

Yaga clears his throat, cutting through their banter. "You three are being sent together because the tunnel network is a labyrinth. We need a clean sweep. Do not underestimate the environment. Darkness and confined spaces are a curse's playground." He slides the folder toward the edge of the podium. "The car is waiting. Get moving."

2006 - July - 05 - Wednesday - 05:12 PM - Harajuku, Takeshita Street

The afternoon sun hangs low over the bustling streets of Harajuku, casting a golden hue over the chaotic mix of fashion boutiques, crepe stands, and throngs of tourists. The air is thick with the scent of sugar and exhaust, vibrating with the pulse of J-pop blasting from nearby storefronts. It’s a humid afternoon, the kind that makes clothes cling to skin, but the crowd doesn't seem to care.

Walking several paces ahead, Shoko Ieiri and Utahime Iori lead the way. Shoko looks as nonchalant as ever, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, a small shopping bag swinging from her wrist. Beside her, Utahime is gesturing animatedly, her boots clicking rhythmically against the pavement. She seems to be in the middle of an intense venting session, her brows furrowed in a mix of exasperation and amusement.

"I'm telling you, Shoko, it's the principle of the thing!" Utahime’s voice carries back to the boys, sharp and clear. "They have absolutely no sense of boundaries. If I have to hear one more 'Utahime-chan' from that white-haired brat, I might actually exorcise him myself."

Shoko lets out a low, dry chuckle, glancing sideways at her friend. "Good luck with that. You know he feeds on the attention. The more you scream, the more he thrives. It's like a cursed technique of its own."

Trailing behind them, burdened like pack mules, are Gojo, Geto, and {{user}}. Satoru Gojo is practically buried under high-end designer bags, the handles looped around his long fingers. Despite the weight, he’s walking with a jaunty, effortless stride, his sunglasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose.

"Man, Utahime is so loud today," Gojo remarks, his voice loud enough for her to definitely hear. He shifts a particularly heavy bag from a luxury boutique, grinning like a shark. "Hey, {{user}}! Don't you think she'd look better if she smiled more? Or maybe if she carried some of these bags? My 'Infinity' doesn't protect me from manual labor, unfortunately."

Suguru Geto walks beside them, carrying his share of the load with more dignity, though the sheer number of bags from a stationery shop and a vintage clothing store makes him look like a moving mountain of paper and plastic. He adjusts his grip, his long hair slightly damp from the heat.

"You're the one who offered to hold them to 'show off your stamina,' Satoru," Suguru points out calmly, though there’s a flicker of annoyance in the way he eyes a particularly pink bag. "Stop complaining and keep walking. We still have to hit that dessert place Shoko mentioned, and I’d rather not be doing it at midnight."

Suguru glances over at {{user}}, noting the way he is handling the weight. He offers a small, sympathetic smirk. "How are you holding up, {{user}}? You look like you're about one designer shoe away from snapping. Try not to drop anything; I think Utahime's life savings are in that blue bag you're clutching."

2006 - July - 05 - Wednesday - 06:45 PM - Shinjuku, Ginza Kyubey (Sushi Shop)

The interior of the high-end sushi shop is a sanctuary of minimalist elegance, a sharp contrast to the neon-drenched chaos of the Shinjuku streets. The scent of vinegared rice, fresh seafood, and warm green tea hangs in the air, punctuated by the rhythmic, percussive sound of the chef's knife hitting the cypress wood cutting board. Low, warm lighting reflects off the polished dark wood of the counter where the five sorcerers are seated in a row.

At one end of the line, Utahime Iori sits with her back perfectly straight, sipping gingerly from a small ceramic cup of hot tea. She looks both relieved to be sitting down and perpetually on guard. Next to her, Shoko Ieiri is already casually popping a piece of fatty tuna into her mouth, her expression one of bored contentment. She reaches for the soy sauce with a practiced, lazy grace.

"Finally," Shoko mumbles around her sushi, her voice low and raspy. "If I had to walk one more block in those heels, I was going to start using RCT on my own feet just to keep going."

Utahime sighs, glancing past Shoko at the three others who take up the rest of the counter. Satoru Gojo is currently engaged in a very public, very loud debate with the sushi chef about the exact ratio of wasabi in his nigiri.

"I'm telling you, old man, I can taste it! It's exactly point-five milligrams too much! It’s overwhelming the delicate sweetness of the scallop!" Gojo exclaims, waving a pair of chopsticks for emphasis. He’s already polished off three plates, the empty ceramic stacked precariously in front of him.

Suguru Geto, seated between Gojo and {{user}}, is the picture of composed patience, though his eyes are fixed on a piece of salmon with an intensity that suggests he’s mentally preparing to eat it. He uses his chopsticks to neatly dip a piece of yellowtail into the soy sauce, his movements fluid and precise.

"Satoru, stop harassing the chef. He’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive," Suguru says calmly, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his voice. He turns his head slightly toward {{user}}, offering a small nod. "Don't mind him, {{user}}. He gets like this when he hasn't had sugar in over two hours. His brain starts to malfunction."

Gojo scoffs, finally popping the 'offending' scallop into his mouth anyway. He leans back, his shoulder brushing against Suguru's as he looks over at them with a challenging, cocky grin.

"Malfunction? Please. I'm just a connoisseur of the finer things," Gojo drawls, his blue eyes bright and restless behind his shades. He gestures toward {{user}}’s plate. "So, {{user}}, how’s the uni? You’ve been quiet. Don't tell me Utahime’s shopping trip actually managed to tire you out."

Utahime’s head snaps toward the end of the counter, her eyes narrowing. "I heard that, Gojo! And for your information, {{user}} was much more helpful than you were. At least they didn't try to use 'Blue' to attract the attention of the shop clerks!"

2006 - July - 18 - Tuesday - 02:30 PM - Tokyo Jujutsu High Training Grounds

The sprawling training grounds of Jujutsu High are transformed into a makeshift baseball diamond under the blistering summer sun. The air is thick with heat, the rhythmic droning of cicadas in the surrounding forest providing a constant background hum. Dirt kicks up into the air as players shift positions, and the smell of sun-baked grass and sweat is heavy on the field.

Masamichi Yaga stands behind home plate as the umpire, his arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses reflecting the harsh light. He looks as stern as ever, though he's traded his usual high-collared jacket for a dark athletic shirt that shows off his massive physique.

"Strike one!" Yaga’s voice booms across the field as a fastball blurs past the batter.

On the mound, Satoru Gojo is grinning like a maniac, flipping the baseball into the air with one hand. He’s wearing his uniform trousers but has discarded his jacket, revealing a tight black undershirt. He hasn't even broken a sweat. Behind him, at shortstop, Suguru Geto is leaning forward, hands on his knees, his long hair tied back in a practical bun. He looks focused, eyes scanning the field with tactical precision.

"Come on, Satoru! No Infinity on the pitches!" Utahime screams from the dugout, waving a plastic fan frantically. She’s already red-faced from the heat and the frustration of watching Gojo dominate.

Mei Mei sits next to her, looking remarkably cool in a sleeveless top, lazily flipping through a small stack of yen notes. She hasn't moved a muscle since the game started. "I'll bet five thousand on the batter for the next round. The odds are shifting," she purrs.

At bat, {{user}} grips the wooden bat, their knuckles white. They've already taken one strike, and the cocky grin on Gojo’s face is starting to grate on their pride. In the field, Yu Haibara is jumping up and down in center field, cheering for both sides with equal enthusiasm, while Nanami Kento stands at first base, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Nanami checks his watch, sighing audibly at the inefficiency of the game.

"Just swing, {{user}}! You can do it!" Haibara yells, his voice brimming with genuine, albeit annoying, optimism.

Poor Kiyotaka Ijichi is crouched behind the plate as the catcher, trembling slightly as he eyes the speed of Gojo’s pitches. He’s wearing the full catching gear, which looks three sizes too big for him, making him look like a turtle tucked into its shell.

Down the third-base line, Shoko Ieiri is leaning against the fence, a cigarette dangling unlit from her lips as she watches the chaos with a half-lidded, amused gaze. She catches {{user}}’s eye and gives a slow, mock-encouraging thumbs up.

"Don't choke, {{user}}," Shoko calls out, her voice lazy. "Gojo’s ego is already big enough to have its own gravitational pull. If you strike out again, we'll never hear the end of it."

Gojo winds up for the next pitch, his blue eyes flashing behind his shades. "Ready for another one, {{user}}? I'll even slow it down for you. Wouldn't want you to trip over your own feet!" He hurls the ball—a blur of white leather that seems to ripple the air around it.

"Play ball!" Yaga commands.

2006 - July - 24 - Monday - 09:14 PM - Tokyo Outskirts, Abandoned Estate

The iron gates of the Kujo estate groan as they swing open, a rusted, screeching sound that echoes through the overgrown garden. Nature has reclaimed much of the grounds; vines thick as human limbs choke the stone lanterns, and the scent of damp earth and rotting wood is overpowering. In the center of the decay stands the mansion—a sprawling, two-story structure that blends traditional Japanese architecture with decaying Western influences. The windows are like hollow eyes, some shattered, others reflecting the pale, sickly light of the moon.

Utahime Iori steps onto the stone path, her miko boots treading carefully over the slick moss. She holds a small, paper charm between her fingers, its surface glowing with a faint, pulsing blue light as it reacts to the stagnant cursed energy in the air. Her expression is tight, her eyes darting toward the shadows dancing under the eaves.

"The residue here is... heavy," Utahime whispers, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the wind through the dead trees. "It’s thick with the scent of old blood and grief. To think the family survived the move to Kyoto only to be slaughtered there... it’s as if whatever is in this house followed them, or is reaching across the distance."

Mei Mei walks beside her, looking entirely unbothered. She carries her massive, cursed-energy-infused battle axe casually over one shoulder, her silver-blue hair shimmering like moonlight. She stops to examine a pile of discarded, tattered sleeping bags and rusted cans—remnants of the squatters who had sought shelter here before vanishing.

"The Kujo family was wealthy, Utahime. Wealth breeds secrets, and secrets breed curses," Mei Mei says, her tone dry and pragmatic. She pokes a pile of refuse with the butt of her axe, uncovering a shoe that looks like it was partially melted. "The squatters weren't just killed. They were consumed. The energy signature here feels like Grade 1. Though I don’t like how uneven it is."

She turns her sharp, purple eyes toward {{user}}, a faint, calculating smile touching her lips.

"What do you think, {{user}}? Does your intuition pick up anything more than just 'spooky vibes'?" Mei Mei asks, her voice purring with a hint of challenge. "The air is static with the intent to kill. If I were to take a guess—I’d say the main attraction is waiting for us upstairs. Or perhaps it's already right behind us, waiting for one of us to trip."

Inside the house, a floorboard creaks—not the sharp snap of old wood, but a slow, wet groan, as if something heavy and soft is dragging itself across the floor. The temperature drops sharply, and the faint, rhythmic sound of footsteps drifts from the pitch-black hallway, followed by the metallic scent of fresh, copper-tasting blood.

"I don't like this," Utahime says, her grip tightening on her charms. She looks over at {{user}}, her eyebrows knit in concern. "Stay close, {{user}}. This isn't a standard investigation anymore. The Kyoto High reports said the family were found with their hearts missing, replaced by river stones. If you see anything that doesn't look human... don't wait for us. Strike first."

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