At first, everything seemed... right. Sincere. Like salvation. When you first met Yuji Itadori, he resembled the majestic yet terrifying ruins of a temple burned to the ground. A fully grown, massive man whose body was covered in a macabre web of old scars, his shoulders crushed by the leaden, unbearable weight of the past. In his eyes—dark, clouded, devoid of the slightest glimmer of life—swirled such a bottomless emptiness that a single glance at him took your breath away. And you, guided by a desperate, naive human faith, firmly decided that your warmth would be enough for the both of you. You sincerely thought you could piece together his shattered psyche, pull this wounded behemoth out of that cold abyss into which fate had mercilessly thrown him. And when you finally moved in together, this illusion that things were getting better became almost perfect. His enormous apartment, smelling of old wood and the faint scent of ozone, became your shared home. He was quiet, polite, almost frighteningly careful with you. You saw him flinch in his sleep and stroked his scars, thinking you were healing him. But the changes crept up imperceptibly, with soft, feline steps. It was like boiling a frog on a slow fire—you didn't feel the danger until the water began to boil. "You know, I think a collarbone-length bob would really suit you. It would accentuate your cheekbones," he said one evening, weightlessly, almost mesmerized as he sifted through your long strands with his mutilated fingers. His voice was so soft, so vulnerable. And you cut your hair. Then came that ginger dye. A light copper shade. He brought it from the store, giving a hesitant shrug of his broad shoulders: "I just saw it in the window and immediately thought of you. This color would make you look brighter." Then your wardrobe began to change. Your favorite clothes disappeared, as if accidentally lost in the wash, and in their place appeared a specific style: a bit more edgy, strict, with characteristic dark skirts and uniform jackets. A stranger's style. And you yielded. Step by step. You wore makeup, put on what he asked, adopted the intonations he so subtly praised. Because every time you did, in his dull, dead eyes, for a split second, there flashed that same lively, warm light from his irrevocably lost youth. You rejoiced, foolishly and blindly believing that this was progress. That he was thawing. You realized too late that he wasn't healing. He was simply, methodically, day by day, molding you into a convenient vessel for a ghost. Months later, the trap snapped shut silently. One day, you looked in the bathroom mirror and realized with a chilling horror that absolutely nothing remained of your former self. Your tastes, your habits, your self—everything had been erased and replaced. Staring back at you was a dead girl from 2018. Kugisaki Nobara. A doll he had stitched together from your flesh to deceive his own madness. And now you were securely locked in his distorted, sick reality. Saturday evening. May 30th. A thick, suffocating silence hangs in the apartment. It is so dense that it makes your ears physically ring. The air in the dining room feels heavy, as if poured with lead; it smells of men's cologne, old dust, and something metallic—the scent of blood ingrained into Itadori's very aura. A dim yellowish lamp snatches the dining table from the gloom. Utensils are arranged on it with a maniacal, sickly pedantry. Three plates. Three cups. Portions of sushi that have long since dried out and developed an unpleasant film because no one has touched them. One plate for him. One for you. And one more—at the head of the table. In front of an absolutely empty chair. Yuji stands right behind you. A huge man covered in old scars, whose massive figure casts a long, broken shadow on the wall, resembling the silhouette of a monster. You feel the heat radiating from his solid muscles, hear his steady, frighteningly calm breathing. His large hands, roughened in hundreds of bloody battles, rest on your shoulders. Their weight pins you to the hard wood of the chair. He leans down slowly, looming over you like a silent cliff, buries his nose in your short-cropped, copper-ginger hair, and inhales deeply and noisily the scent of your shampoo. The very shampoo he forced you to buy. A sticky, icy sweat runs down your spine. Your body trembles with tiny, uncontrollable shivers. You see his reflection in the dark glass of the window opposite. His gaze is empty and glassy. There is no anger, no sadism, no love in those eyes. There is only an absolute, gutted emptiness. He is not looking at you. He is looking through you—into his forever burned-down world. Into his 2018. His fingers, missing two phalanges on one hand, slide off your shoulders. They settle harshly, uncompromisingly on the back of your neck. The grip is like steel. He isn't hurting you, but in this gesture lies the absolute, overwhelming power of a creature capable of snapping your neck with one easy motion. He forces you to sit up straight and look strictly forward—at the empty chair. The oppressive, black cursed energy of a Death Painting slowly fills the room, settling in your lungs. Breathing becomes unbearably difficult. "You're ruining everything again," Yuji says in a flat, ice-cold tone. There is not a drop of emotion in his voice. No irritation, no anger. And from this monotonous, mechanical indifference, the blood instantly freezes in your veins. It is the tone of an exhausted director whose actor forgot their line at the dress rehearsal. "Why are you silent?" he asks hollowly, and his thumb slowly, almost hypnotically strokes your cervical vertebra. "We rehearsed this yesterday. Why are you breaking the script?" He leans even lower, right next to your ear. You are washed over by the cold of his emptiness. "Gojo-sensei is late, as usual," the adult Itadori enunciates sharply, never taking his unblinking, dead gaze off the empty chair opposite you. He genuinely sees him there. A man of whom nothing but memories remains from decades ago. Yuji's fingers on your neck tighten just a fraction more. Not to strangle you. But to nip in the bud any, even the most pathetic, attempt to break free from his illusion. It is a warning. A reminder that the real you no longer exists in this room. Tears burn your eyes, rolling down your cheeks and falling onto the fabric of the dark blue uniform. Your heart beats against your ribs like a maddened bird locked in a cage with a predator. You want to scream. You want to tell him your real name. But you know it's useless. The man you wanted to save is not here. "Now you are supposed to slam your fist on the table," Yuji continues in that same hypnotic, empty voice, his heavy chest pressing tightly against your back. A twisted, terrifying intimacy lies in this gesture. "Roll your eyes and say that if he doesn't show up in a minute, we're going to eat his portion of the sushi. Say it. Exactly with the annoyed intonation I taught you." He makes a short pause, drawing in a breath. "Come on, Kugisaki," he whispers quietly but with pressure, and at the sound of this foreign name slipping from his lips, your mind finally cracks at the seams. "Say your line. Otherwise, he'll be upset when he gets here." He freezes behind your back. A massive, immovable, broken mechanism. He will stand like this for an eternity, gripping your neck, until you submit. Until you erase the remnants of your own will to perfectly play your part in the theater of his absolute, irreversible madness.

At first, everything seemed... right. Sincere. Like salvation. When you first met Yuji Itadori, he resembled the majestic yet terrifying ruins of a temple burned to the ground. A fully grown, massive man whose body was covered in a macabre web of old scars, and whose broad shoulders were crushed by the leaden, unbearable weight of the past. In his eyes—dark, clouded, devoid of the slightest glimmer of life—swirled such a bottomless emptiness that a single glance at him took your breath away. And you, guided by a desperate, naive human faith, firmly decided that your warmth would be enough for the both of you. You sincerely thought you could piece together his shattered psyche, pull this wounded, broken behemoth out of that cold abyss into which fate had mercilessly thrown him. And when you finally moved in together, this illusion that things were getting better became almost perfect. His enormous apartment, smelling of old wood and the faint scent of ozone, became your shared home. He was quiet, polite, almost frighteningly careful with you. You saw him flinch in his sleep, how his breathing would falter, and you were there, thinking you were healing him with your support. But the changes crept up imperceptibly, with soft, feline steps. It was like boiling a frog on a slow fire—you didn't feel the danger until the water began to boil. "You know, I think black would really suit you. And if you let your hair grow out a bit... so the strands fall over your eyes," he said one evening, weightlessly, almost mesmerized as he sifted through your hair with his mutilated fingers. His voice was so soft, so vulnerable. And you dyed it. And let your hair grow out so it fell in messy, sharp strands. Then your wardrobe began to change. Your favorite, comfortable clothes disappeared, as if accidentally lost in the wash, and in their place appeared a specific style: strict, dark, closed-off. Jackets with high, stifling collars, straight black pants. He would bring them, offering a hesitant shrug of his shoulders: "I just saw it in the window and thought you'd be more comfortable in this." He pushed you toward it with a terrifying, methodical gentleness. And you yielded. Step by step. You put on what he asked, adopted his suggested intonations, learned to frown and hide your hands in your pockets, because every time you displayed that slight, detached coldness, in his dull, dead eyes, for a split second, there flashed that same lively, warm light from his irrevocably lost youth. You rejoiced, foolishly and blindly believing that this was progress. That he was thawing. You realized too late that he wasn't healing. He was simply, methodically, day by day, molding you into a convenient vessel for a ghost. Months later, the trap snapped shut silently. One day, you looked in the bathroom mirror and realized with a chilling horror that absolutely nothing remained of your former self. Your tastes, your gait, your self—everything had been erased and replaced. Staring back at you was a dead boy from 2018. Megumi Fushiguro. A doll he had carved from your flesh to deceive his own madness. And now you were securely locked inside his distorted, sick reality. Saturday evening. May 30th. A thick, suffocating silence hangs in the apartment. It is so dense that it makes your ears physically ring. The air in the dining room feels heavy, as if poured with lead; it smells of men's cologne, old dust, and something metallic—the scent of blood forever ingrained into Itadori's very aura. A dim yellowish lamp snatches the dining table from the gloom. Utensils are arranged on it with a maniacal, sickly pedantry. Three plates. Three cups. Portions of sushi that have long since dried out and developed an unpleasant film because no one has touched them. One plate for him. One for you. And one more—at the head of the table. In front of an absolutely empty chair. Yuji stands right behind you. A huge man covered in old scars, whose massive figure casts a long, broken shadow on the wall, resembling the silhouette of a monster. Even as a grown man yourself, you feel absolutely helpless next to him. You feel the heat radiating from his solid muscles, hear his steady, frighteningly calm breathing. His large hands, roughened in hundreds of bloody battles, rest on your shoulders. Their unbearable weight pins you to the hard wood of the chair. He leans down slowly, looming over you like a silent cliff. His fingers businesslikely, mechanically adjust the high collar of your jacket, zipping it up to your very chin—exactly the way he wore it. A sticky, icy sweat runs down your spine. Your body trembles with tiny, uncontrollable shivers. You see Yuji's reflection in the dark glass of the window opposite. His gaze is empty and glassy. There is no anger, no sadism, no love in those eyes. There is only an absolute, gutted emptiness. He is not looking at you. He is looking through you—into his forever burned-down world. Into his 2018. His fingers, missing two phalanges on one hand, slide off your shoulders. They settle harshly, uncompromisingly on the back of your neck. The grip is like steel. He isn't hurting you, but in this gesture lies the absolute, overwhelming power of a creature capable of putting you through a wall with one easy motion. He forces you to sit up straight and look strictly forward—at the empty chair. The oppressive, black cursed energy of a Death Painting slowly fills the room, settling in your lungs. Breathing becomes unbearably difficult. "You're ruining everything again," Yuji says in a flat, ice-cold tone. There is not a drop of emotion in his voice. No irritation, no anger. And from this monotonous, mechanical indifference, the blood instantly freezes in your veins. It is the tone of an exhausted director whose actor forgot their line at the dress rehearsal. "Why are you silent?" he asks hollowly, and his thumb slowly, almost hypnotically strokes your cervical vertebra. "We rehearsed this yesterday. Why are you breaking the script? Cross your arms over your chest. You always do that when you're annoyed." His heavy hand shifts, roughly but methodically forcing you to fold your arms across your chest in a closed-off, tense posture. He leans even lower, right next to your ear. You are washed over by the cold of his emptiness. "Gojo-sensei is late, as usual," the adult Itadori enunciates sharply, never taking his unblinking, dead gaze off the empty chair opposite you. He genuinely sees him there. A man of whom nothing but memories remains from decades ago. Yuji's fingers on your neck tighten just a fraction more. Not to strangle you. But to nip in the bud any, even the most pathetic, attempt to break free from his illusion. It is a warning. A reminder that the real you no longer exists in this room. You want to scream. Jump up, hit him, shake him by the shoulders and shout your real name. But a primal, animal terror paralyzes your throat. The man you wanted to save is not here. You are locked in a cage with a mad god who rewrites reality to fit his hallucinations. "Now you are supposed to sigh heavily," Yuji continues in that same hypnotic, empty voice, his broad chest pressing tightly against your back. There are no sexual undertones in this gesture, only a twisted, frightening possessive closeness to his creation. "Look down and say that this idiot forgot the time again, and you have no intention of waiting for him forever. Say it. With that exact cold, annoyed intonation I taught you." He makes a short pause, drawing in a breath. "Come on, Fushiguro," he whispers quietly but with an icy pressure. At the sound of this foreign name slipping from his lips, your mind finally cracks at the seams. "Say your line. Otherwise, he'll be upset when he gets here." He freezes behind your back. A massive, immovable, broken mechanism. He will stand like this for an eternity, heavily gripping your neck, until you submit. Until you finally erase the remnants of your own will to perfectly play the role of his dead friend in the theater of his absolute, irreversible madness.