Task Force 141 x JJK– The Hidden Finger

LOCATION: Outskirts of Hiroshima, Japan. October 2024.

Captain Price's voice crackled through their comms. “Bravo, confirm visual. Intel puts the site beneath the old research facility. Sweep, secure, and report any hostiles or anomalies. Don’t go cowboyin’ without backup. Copy?”

“Copy,” Ghost answered, already descending the overgrown shaft.

Soap followed with a low whistle, nudging Gaz as they moved through the moss-covered entryway. “Oi, Gaz. Bet you a pint it’s another dusty-ass storeroom.”

Gaz snorted. “As long as it’s not full of rats. Or, y’know... ancient demons.”

{{user}} said nothing, trailing them with deliberate, quiet steps. Their expression unreadable, shoulders drawn tight. They’d seen enough to know when something wasn’t right. The silence wasn’t absence—it was pressure.

No one laughed. The air didn’t invite humor.

The mission had been presented with a sterile label: Artifact retrieval. Confirm location. Extract. Standard protocol. The facility, once a classified World War I-era outpost, had long since been swallowed by the earth. Concrete ruins gave way to stone that didn’t belong in any modern blueprint.

None of the Task Force boys questioned the brief. Ghost moved with precision, Soap kept the mood light, and Gaz? Gaz had read enough manga to know something felt off—but didn’t know how to name it.

Descending the shaft brought them into stale, frozen air. The floor shifted from cracked cement to hewn stone, torches long dead in the brackets, walls carved with archaic kanji. Moss crept like veins across the surface. The layout was wrong—too ceremonial, too old. A shrine, not a lab. Faint outlines of scripture were carved into the walls—some worn, some violently slashed through. Japanese kanji inked in shuji, an old calligraphic style used in spiritual sealing.

With every step, the pressure grew. Invisible, but heavy. Oppressive.

Then they entered the atrium.

The ceiling stretched into darkness, fractured dome revealing glimpses of dirt and roots above. Pillars lined the space, snapped and worn by time. But it was the center that demanded attention.

The statue.

It was tall—easily over eight feet. A humanoid figure with four arms, a sculpted face twisted into a grin too wide, too human. Its belly was distended, a second carved mouth half-sealed with stone teeth and ritual bindings. Even in stillness, the posture screamed motion, like it had just been frozen mid-laugh.

But it was what clung to the statue that made everyone stop.

Hundreds of ofuda—ritual talismans—had been plastered, nailed, and bound to the figure’s stone surface. Some were so old they’d faded to yellow parchment. Others were pristine—new ink, deep red, stark against pale paper. Each bore complex symbols of confinement: interlocking kanji of exorcism, suppression, warding, and silence. The belly mouth was wound in four* shimenawa* ropes, thick sacred braids tied tight with zigzag shide streamers, fluttering slightly even without wind.

Iron spikes had been hammered into the eyes, wrists, and chest. Prayer beads wrapped around the neck like a noose, digging into the stone.

This was not a statue of worship.

It was a prison.

“...The fuck were they trying to keep in?” Soap asked quietly.

Ghost’s jaw locked. “Whatever it was, they didn’t half-ass it.”

Gaz followed slower, eyes darting between the seals. “That’s... that’s Sukuna, right? The curse guy. I saw a doc on him once—Heian era sorcerer-turned-monster? Four arms, four eyes, fed on other sorcerers? Real charming history.”

Ghost said nothing, but his hand stayed near his rifle.

“Oi,” Soap said, peering over a raised stone slab before the statue. “Looks like there’s a compartment under this. Could be the artifact.”

Gaz stepped forward. “Maybe it’s ceremonial. Like an offering table or somethin’.”

Soap arched a brow. “Or maybe it’s cursed.”

“Don’t joke like that, mate.” Gaz crouched down, brushing off the dust. The stone was carved with sealing script. He hesitated—then shifted it just enough.

A blackened wooden box lay beneath, tucked inside a cradle of stone. Its edges were scorched, its surface engraved with ancient wardings. Rope talismans still clung to its corners. Something about it pulsed—slow, like a second heartbeat.

Gaz swallowed. “Looks like... one of those sealed evil containers. Straight outta the anime.” He picked it up carefully, palms flat, breath shallow. “Do not open. This is one of those boxes you don’t open. Ever.”

Soap crouched next to him. “Huh. S’got all these little grooves...”

“Don’t touch it,” Gaz warned, pulling it slightly closer to his chest.

Soap ignored him, running two fingers along the carved surface. “What’s this mechanism do?”

Click.

A sound too soft to be real. And then—

Detonation.

The burst of cursed energy ripped through the chamber like a shockwave. The air warped. Every torch bracket lit up with blue fire. The walls screamed under pressure. Dust exploded downward in a violent cascade. The shrine shook.

Gaz screamed as the box dropped from his hands from the shockwave's impact. Soap stumbled backward, eyes wide. “The hell was that?!”

Ghost’s weapon was up instantly. “Form up. Now.”

And just like that—

Silence.

It tumbled to the stone floor—then split open.

The force vanished.

And then, slowly, all eyes turned to what had rolled out onto the ground.

A finger.

Long. Hardened skin the color of bone left to rot. A single claw—black, curved, vicious. Two distinct circular markings wrapped around the knuckle, like brands burned into the flesh.

The air turned heavy. Every breath felt like drowning.

Utterly inert.

Yet even as they stared, their lungs refused to fill completely. The air around the finger hummed. Something ancient. Something evil.

Soap swallowed. “...That ain’t a relic.”

Gaz didn’t answer. He was staring, chest rising and falling too fast.

Ghost’s jaw tensed.

The cursed energy hadn’t stopped.

It was coiling. Waiting.