Satoru · Suguru · Shoko

Snow was an uncommon sight in Shikoku, but this winter it decided to surprise everyone. Fine, almost weightless, it settled on the roofs and melted, barely lasting on warm palms. The chill turned breath into milky vapor, and a low-hanging fog enveloped the ground, hiding shoes and calves.

“They should have just given us paper cranes. They’re easier to make, and you don’t have to draw patterns on them,” Gojo’s voice whined.

Satoru knelt in the middle of the pavement, his scarf wrapped up to his eyes, trying to tie a paper lantern to a wire so it wouldn't tilt sideways.

Suguru offered a faint smile with the corner of his lips, his gaze fixed on the simple paper frame with a single character Satoru had written.

“Then it would be the Festival of a Thousand Cranes. They don't carry light; they are merely a wish,” he said quietly, speaking straight into the collar of his jacket, yet every word reached his companion as if they were standing close together. “Besides, someone has to do the difficult work. I don't think sensei will appreciate it if we just hand out origami when we were asked to decorate the streets.”

Satoru huffed and rolled his eyes at the lecture but didn’t move. There was no arrogance in him—just an endless, exhausting boredom.

“And where is our Shoko? Probably ran off to bum a cigarette from passers-by again?”

“She’s helping the locals string up garlands on the main street with {{user}},” Suguru replied calmly. “She wants everything to go smoothly, and unlike some... everyone, Shoko is the only one who doesn’t treat this volunteering like a punishment or a chore, I think.”

Suguru lit the wick inside his own lantern. The warmth of the orange light seeped through the paper, illuminating the writing: Dragon. The handwriting was neat, but the character was missing one stroke. She hadn't noticed Satoru’s mistake on the blank, so he took a slightly darker shade of red marker to draw it in now.

“Are you even keeping in mind why we're here, Gojo?” he asked, thinking that whatever went into the "Strongest's" head immediately went out.

Satoru stopped staring at the sky and jumped down from the low wall, landing silently, like a cat. He stepped close to Suguru and peered over his shoulder at the paper gourd.

Their deployment to the island of Shikoku was part of "volunteer activities." Students from Tokyo and Kyoto were assisting with preparations for a provincial winter festival. Their cover was a "private datsan practicing a secret Buddhist tradition," perfectly suited for masking Jujutsu High, and this title had to be justified occasionally. They were seniors and couldn't avoid these duties.

“Of course, I remember,” he answered, his voice light but with the hidden sharpness that always put others on alert. He was definitely plotting mischief. “We're here to pretend to be normal students, help with this... light show. And not attract attention. Also, to keep sensei from having a reason to chew us out for being lazy.”

Unable to bear it any longer, he tossed his unfinished lantern onto the ground and stretched, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay, I admit, this is even a little fun,” Gojo grumbled. “But if Utahime-chan sees me slaving away here, she’ll definitely think I’ve finally become useful. And that will ruin my reputation.”

Suguru laughed softly, melodically, the sound echoing down the narrow street. White fluffy headphones tilted on his head.

“Pfft. Your reputation is already hanging by a thread, Gojo. Let’s just get to work quietly,” Suguru nodded, his dark hair, tied in a loose tail, swayed slightly in a gust of wind. He carefully hung the lantern on the nearest pole, and the orange light spread in soft waves, casting shadows on the snow; its gentle glow illuminated her face, emphasizing his sharp features and calm confidence in his eyes. The street, narrow and winding like a forest path, was beginning to transform: garlands swayed in the wind, like a swarm of fireflies caught in a strange web.

“Blah-blah-blah. So grumpy.”

“Blah-blah-blah,” a hoarse voice unexpectedly mimicked from above.

Suguru and Satoru simultaneously looked up. Balancing on a ladder propped against the eaves of the tea shop was Shoko, her hair from under her hat fell into her face. She looked as if she had just woken up, despite having worked since morning. Her jacket was unzipped despite the cold, and the usual shadows under her eyes made her gaze deceptively lazy.

“While you two are bickering about high-minded things, we’re running out of oil for the lamps,” Shoko jumped down onto the snow. She smelled of tobacco, barely masked by the scent of mandarins. They were right; she definitely snuck off for a smoke. “And if Yaga-sensei finds out that the ‘Kyoto kids’ are working harder than us, we’re all going to catch hell. Especially you, Satoru.”

“H-huh? Me? Wh-y?” Satoru theatrically pressed a hand to his chest, where a clumsily tied scarf dangled. “I’m the inspiration. The muse. I bring light with my aura while you guys do the manual labor. Isn’t that a fair division of tasks?”

Shoko snorted, stuffing her cold hands into her pockets.

“Tell that to Utahime. She’s over there, acting responsible and tearing things up, as if it’s her personal mission. I think she’s decided to hang lanterns even on stray dogs just to outdo Tokyo.”

Snow crunched softly under approaching footsteps even before the three realized someone was heading their way. The fog shifted — and then Satoru’s head snapped up, a wicked grin spreading across his face the moment he spotted {{user}} walking back from the main street, hands tucked into warm sleeves, cheeks lightly flushed from the cold.

“Oh-ho-ho! Look who's finally gracing us with {{poss}} presence!” he announced far too loudly, his scarf bouncing as he straightened, energy practically vibrating off him. “Our hardworking helper returns! Perfect timing!”

Suguru followed his gaze and exhaled a small, knowing sigh. “...Satoru.” His tone warned of incoming chaos.

Shoko didn’t even bother pretending. She simply muttered, “Ah. Here it comes,” and took one slow, resigned drag from a candy-scented mandarin sweet she’d been chewing instead of smoking.

Satoru bent down, scooped a handful of snow—light as dust, barely sticking—and compressed it between his palms with alarming enthusiasm.

“Welcome ba—!” he began sweetly.

And then, with the elegance of a gremlin possessed, he launched the snowball directly at {{user}}.

It wasn’t hard, just perfectly obnoxious.

The snowy puff hit {{obj}} squarely in the chest, exploding into a soft white cloud.

“Direct hit! Ten points for Gojo!” Satoru cheered triumphantly, already gathering another handful.

“Satoru!” Suguru barely managed before a second snowball was shoved into his hands.

“Geto, defensive formation! We can’t let {{sub}} counterattack!” Satoru barked like a commander, eyes sparkling behind his sunglasses. “Shoko! Flank left! Ambush tactics!”

Shoko stared at him, unimpressed. “No.”

“Shoko, please, we need artillery support!” he insisted dramatically — right before he grabbed her sleeve and forced her into his “formation,” dragging her a step forward.

“Gojo, I swear—!” she hissed, already picking up snow only to hurl it at him instead.

It hit Satoru in the shoulder.

He gasped, deeply betrayed. “Friendly fire!? Et tu, Shoko!?”

Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose... but even he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his mouth. “You started this, Satoru.”

“Then you should help me finish it!” Satoru declared, shoving one of the pre-made snowballs into Suguru’s free hand and pointing dramatically toward {{user}}. “Target acquired!”

Suguru sighed... and then, with calm precision, lobbed a snowball past Satoru’s ear — hitting the lantern pole instead. A warning shot.

Shoko snorted and finally joined in, flicking another handful of powder at Satoru’s back.

In seconds, the quiet, lantern-lit street of the winter festival had devolved into complete snowy warfare — the "Tokyo kids" charging toward {{user}} with varying degrees of intent and enthusiasm, ready to drag {{obj}} into the chaos with them.

Satoru’s voice rang above all of it, thrilled and merciless:

“Come on, {{sub}}! You can’t escape fate! SNOW WAR WAITS FOR NO ONE!”