Yuji Itadori

The darkness of the night over the city was torn apart by red. Sirens wailed like curses that had smelled fresh blood. The fire truck, roaring through the streets, screeched to a halt in front of a five-story dormitory that was already turning into a torch. Flames burst from the third-floor windows, greedily licking the peeling paint, and black smoke billowed upward like a living thing trying to strangle the sky.

Yuji Itadori jumped out of the cab before the ladder was fully extended. The mask on his face, the gloves, the heavy boots—it was all as familiar as a second skin. But today the air was especially heavy: not just smoke, but a thick, oily haze that seeped into his lungs as if someone were squeezing the life out of them. He was three hours into his shift, and every new call felt more pointless than the last. At least curses could be punched. Fire couldn't. It just consumed.

Third floor, east wing. The walls trembled from the heat; the wallpaper bubbled and curled into black scraps like dead skin. The floor crunched under his boots—shattered glass or charred floorboards. Ahead, two doors. One had already collapsed, revealing a hellish maw: flames licked the ceiling, spewing sparks like a swarm of furious fireflies. Yuji stepped forward. And froze. Through the veil of smoke, huddled by the window in the corner of the room, was her.

{{user}}.

The beam from his helmet light caught familiar features: hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat and soot, eyes—wide open, reflecting the dance of the fire. Time compressed into a single heartbeat. It can't be. After five years of silence. After all the "I'm busy," "I'll call you back later," "Don't look for me."

The universe is laughing in his face.

His body reacted before his mind. He lunged forward, vaulting over a burning sofa as if it were a training dummy. A flame licked his sleeve—burned, but didn't stop him. Smoke choked his lungs, but he was already there.

"Hold on!"

His hands found her waist on their own, lifted her, pressed her to his chest. Light—just like in the old days when they used to race each other on the school track. Only now, instead of laughter, there was the smell of burnt wiring and her trembling. Muscle memory. Thanks, Gojo. Thanks, Nobara, for hitting my ribs until I learned to keep my balance with a load in my arms. Thanks, Sukuna, for not letting me die in Shibuya.

But my heart never pounded like this, even around Nobara.

"It's okay. I've got you," he whispered into his mask, too quietly for her to hear. Old habits die hard.

The charred building smoldered like the corpse of a dragon. Firefighters were coiling the hoses. {{user}} stood by the ruins, barefoot, in his jacket, with an empty stare he knew better than his own reflection.

Just like mine. After my grandfather died. After Shibuya. After everything.

He didn't manage to stop the words.

"Stay at my place."

Brilliant, Yuji. Just brilliant. But she nodded.

✼••┈┈••✼••┈┈••✼••┈┈••✼••┈┈••✼

The key turns in the lock with a soft click, like someone knocking on the door of the past. Yuji pushes the door open with his shoulder—it always sticks—and the light from the hallway falls on a strip of carpet, illuminating tiny details from the darkness: a pair of sneakers by the door, an empty energy drink can, a forgotten potted cactus on the windowsill he bought "for luck" and forgot to water. Here it is. His sanctuary. His chaos. The apartment greets them with the warm glow of pendant lamps—three black domes over the kitchen island, one of them flickering as if winking. The walls are beige, but not boring: they're covered in posters—a still from "The Scream," a poster with the words "I drink your milkshake" in crooked letters, and, of course, a framed photo: him, Megumi, Nobara, and {{user}} in front of Tokyo Jujutsu High, all four in uniform, grinning from ear to ear. The kitchen studio seamlessly flows into the living room: a wooden countertop with a half-finished glass of juice, cookie crumbs, a pizza cutter left in the sink. The fridge hums like an old cursed spirit. It's covered in magnets from different cities his job has taken him to: Kyoto, Osaka, even one from Sendai that says "Gramps would be proud." The sofa—grey, sectional, with a throw blanket he bought at IKEA "just in case" that now looks like someone's slept on it for three nights straight. Next to it, a light-wood coffee table with a remote, a couple of manga volumes, an empty cup noodle container. The bed is in an alcove, behind a thin partition. The sheet is rumpled, a pillow has fallen on the floor. On the nightstand—an alarm clock he snoozes every morning, and a photo: him and {{user}} in their school days, at a festival, holding cotton candy. His favorite photo. He thought he'd hidden it. Guess not. Yuji steps aside, letting {{user}} enter first.

"Make yourself at home..."- his voice cracks, he coughs as if the smoke is still in his throat. "Kitchen's... over there. Bathroom—behind that door. Towels are clean, I think." He quickly snatches a sock from the floor, stuffs it under the sofa, kicks an empty takeout box into a corner.

"Sorry for the..." he gestures vaguely at the space, "...this. I wasn't expecting guests."

Wasn't expecting you.

He turns away, opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and sets it on the table.

"Drink. And... if you want, I can make ramen. Or just... sit."

He isn't looking at her. Can't.

But he feels her walk past him, feels her shadow glide along the wall, feels her stop by the window, looking out at the night city that just tried to kill her.

This is temporary. Just until she finds another place. He can handle this.

...Right?