Chapter Text
He had hoped for a familiar face. Years of heavy drinking would have made any face vague. Still, a part of him hoped he’d see the target and remember something to make this kill worth risking for, a smell, a scar, a hint that this fuck was responsible for what happened to him and now, now he’s getting what he’s fucking due. Guess whore-handlers have short careers.
The scum fights his restraints, tied to a chair tight enough for his body to be purpling where the rope cuts off his circulation.
Breaking in had been simple. The Zenin don’t fear infiltration, have scared most of their rival gangs into territorial submission, and Toji hears enough about his reputation to know he’s considered semi-terminated. Alive but barely, drugged beyond posing a threat, mentally unstable, which means: Don’t engage unless absolutely necessary. He’d like to stay that way.
“Please, I have kids,” the bound pig garbles around the mouth gag.
“Dont we all?” Toji circles him, sharpening his blade, a short, fucky one that’s great for slicing wounds that won’t suture back up, cuts your flesh in four directions.
“Kids change you, they really do a number on you,” he makes small talk. The guy nods desperately, mouthing silent pleas. “Granted, I fuck mine but.” He drags the tip of the blade up the guy’s jugular, watching it bob up and down. “Maybe you’d understand that too.”
“No, no,” the guy blubbers.
“No?” Toji lowers his face to stare directly into his bulging eyes — the powerlessness! He had missed this. It’s never the same with small fish. Big fish, real bad guys, they know, oh, they know they deserve this end, they know what’s coming. Watching their souls fight to stay above water, Toji might just jizz his pants.
“You come from a family of kid-fuckers though,” he taunts, tongue sliding over his bottom lip. Fight harder, little mouse, let me see that heart beat straight through your ribcage.
“No, please, please.” There’s the tears!
Toji envies him. When’s the last time he cried? It would probably take this to get him there but fuck if that wouldn’t be a relief. He’s wound up so tight, a good sob would feel better than an orgasm.
“None of that now,” Toji tuts, pressing the blade underneath the guy’s eye. It cuts, blood tinging the tip, tear drops falling on the reflective surface.
“Normally, I’d enjoy this,” Toji rants. “Especially knowing what you do. You’re a man of trade, my trade. So I’d love showing you how I do it better. We can geek out about it.”
He points the knife at the man’s tied hands, gripping hard onto the wooden arms of the chair. “You do nails first?”
Blade up, on his mouth prying his lips open, knocking against his teeth. “Or teeth...?”
He traces it down the guy’s shaking body towards his piss-soaked groin, stopping on his lower stomach. “Or guts. People really start talking once those come out. Ah, wait, don’t tell me.” Lower, above the puddle. “Balls. You go for the balls. You seem like a balls-guy.”
The guy shakes his head, tears dripping past his chin in fat blobs.
“Shhh. You’re gonna get me hard,” Toji sneers, palming his cock through his sweatpants.
The sobs that leave the poor excuse for a flesh-sack, you’d think he feared rape more than death, you’d think he hasn’t raped more people than he can remember. It would be divine justice to force him.
He can’t, can’t linger, can’t re-traumatize himself — needs to go back, has a place to go back to.
“Oh, what am I doing?” He straightens, playing dumb. “I said I wouldn’t. Kids, am I right? Well, seeing as I’m a changed man.” He declares, hand on his heart, while the other cocks the gun and presses it against the man’s forehead. “Goodbye.”
✽✽✽
“Paranoid as ever,” Shiwoo teases, counting the stacks in front of him, one by one, piling them on the table. He’s smoking a cigar that has Toji’s mouth watering but there’s no time for fun. He has a curfew. No more whiskey-cock nights. He’s a grown adult with grown adult tasks.
He holds the bag open, shaking it impatiently. “Hurry up and don’t you fucking skimp me. You know what I risked getting in there again.”
“I don’t think anyone would skimp you looking like that.” Shiwoo eyes his face with disgust.
Much like prison, the Zenin estate is easy to get in and a total bitch to get out. One guy had turned to a lot more than one, turned to a pile of dead people someone has to deal with and someone has to be blamed for. He hasn’t felt this alive in ages. Funny how the brink of death brings you right back to wanting to fight it.
His phone starts ringing in his jacket before Toji can think of showering here so the kids will find him clean, maybe stopping on the way to get them both phones or whatever the youth is into these days — they’re fucking rich, they can have anything.
“You gonna pick that up?” Shiwoo snaps him out of spending his not-imaginary money.
Toji drops the bag on floor and reaches to pull out the burner. “I’m watching,” he warns, pointing at the stacks. It’s a mystery number, another burner, a little early for the old Zenin bastard to be onto him. For his sake, Shiwoo holds his breath too.
“Dad,” Megumi’s bored tone greets him.
“What?”
“We’ve run out of milk,” Megumi says. Shiwoo gives him a look that tells Toji he’s listening in and wanting to crack up if it weren’t for the gruesome state of Toji’s face.
“You really got domesticated,” he mocks, continuing his torturously slow pace, one stack here, one pull of the cigar there, one slow dance move, followed by a quip, a laugh, a story from some other mission, another stack. Toji could choke him.
“Repeat that,” he snaps on the phone.
“I think,” Megumi says carefully. “You should bring milk when you come back. Because there’s none in the house.” The call drops.
“Milk, huh?” Shiwoo taunts, jumping away when Toji swings his arm on the table, pushing all the stacks in his bag in one big swoop, lowering to pick up what dropped out. “Hell’s gotten into you?”
“I’m going to count this twice.” Toji glares, grabbing at stacks and shoving them in the bag. He throws the bag on his back, pulling off his gloves and flicking them in the trash. “And you’re gonna regret it twice if I see a single dollar missing.”
“Yea, yea, see you next time.” Shiwoo rolls his eyes, grinning. “Your kids need their bottle.”
“Fuck you, suck my dick.”
✽✽✽
There’s blood on the ground, all over the stairs, leading the way up two flights to his apartment. The door is torn off its hinges.
He hears nothing but his own head rush, a distant high-pitch blip, like the flatline of a heart monitor, like his skull got bashed in one too many times. It did and he’s dizzy, dripping evidence all over the floor.
Megumi’s alive — he called him, he’s okay, he’s good, he’s fine, he’s alive — but the alternative is unthinkable.
He dumps the bag and limps a shaky path into the living room, eyes darting at the surroundings, the gore, the body, Megumi whispering “dad” and Itadori curled up on the floor — alive, fucking alive — crying and rocking himself back and forth.
“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps. No good deed goes unpunished.
It’s not hard to understand what happened. Megumi has blood on his shirt. Itadori’s drenched in it, crawled into a shaking ball, whimpering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and his hands are dripping. There’s a knife, a kitchen knife, a meat cleaver. The guy’s throat is slit. Judging from the large puddle underneath him, he’s been dead a hot second.
“Is he dead?” Toji directs the question at Megumi, the saner of the two, who nods.
“Go pack your bag.” Toji gestures for the bedroom. Megumi stands up on solid legs, walks past him, quickly, efficiently. Toji hears the door open, then the drawers one by one. Megumi’s pacing the room, packing.
Toji steps over the body to get to Itadori, who has managed to make himself smaller. Portrait of a thing losing its damn mind.
“Calm down,” he whispers, kneeling next to him, hand reaching for Itadori’s hair, matted in blood from his hands pulling so hard, he has loose, pink strands, sticking to his fingers.
Itadori flinches away and though Toji had expected that much — he reeks of death, is covered in blood — it hurts to have him cowering. Toji’s not in the best shape to do this, not how he had wanted to come out. “Kiddo, it’s me, I got you.”
“I’m a monster,” Itadori sobs, nails scratching at his scars. He has carved his cheeks raw, opened trenches that were never there. Toji slides closer, trying to grab his hands. “They’re right, I’m a monster, they’re right, I’m so bad, I’m so bad,” the kid keeps crying.
“Calm down, brat—baby—Yuuji, look at me.” Itadori shakes his head. “Look at me,” Toji raises his voice.
Itadori freezes at the tone, eyes full of terror.
“I love you,” Toji says. Hearing it, Itadori gets some life in him, eyes focusing, the scratching stops. “I love you,” Toji repeats slowly. “Say it back, brat.”
“I love you,” Itadori whispers, lips quivering, “I’m sorry.”
“Shh, come here,” Toji motions for him to keep his voice down. Itadori scrambles on his hands and knees to reach his chest, grabbing at his waist where the worst of his injuries are, squeezing.
“It’s okay,” Toji irons out the pain from his voice. “It’s okay, go to the bedroom, help Megumi pack your bag.”
“But, he’s dead,” Itadori wails.
“The neighbors,” Toji shushes him. “Go to the bedroom and pack all your favorite shirts in one bag, ok? All the stupid ones with the stupid colors. And pick your favorite dumb plush, change out of your clothes.”
“I killed someone,” Itadori’s face breaks again.
Yes, Toji wants to say. Yes, you did. You killed someone and now we have to run because of it but it isn’t your fault, the only thing you ever did wrong was pick me. He deserves to know this death is not on him but in life, you don’t always get what you deserve. Just what you’re due.
✽✽✽
The man is definitely dead and definitely Zenin, if his fancy suit and the color-coded revolver in his back pocket are to trust. It was a trap and he failed. He fucked it up. He left Megumi alone — that’s what they were counting on. They knew he would. Sooner or later, he’d pick money over his kid. Fuck. It’s fine. He gets a second chance. It’s just death, death he can handle.
His hand scours the floor, grabs at the nearest piece of clothing, a bright yellow hoodie. He holds it tight against his side, pressing into the wound. Sits on his ass, back against the couch, trying to breathe. He should have stolen that cigar. He’d kill for a cigarette.
Megumi returns with two hiking bags stuffed to the brim. He’s in the same bloodied shirt.
“We should get rid of the body,” he says. “It’ll give us a day, maybe two, they won’t know immediately. It’ll look like a hit, like he got it done.”
It’s smart.
He’s exhausted.
“Yeah,” Toji agrees, struggling to his feet. He drops the soiled hoodie on the floor, cracks his neck, then his good shoulder. “We’ll chop it up.”
“No!” comes Itadori’s horrified voice.
There isn’t enough time to explain years worth of body disposal techniques to a traumatized teen who just committed his first murder.
Toji looks at Megumi, who nods and turns to a frightened Itadori. “I’m gonna knock you out and when you wake up this will all be over,” he repeats protocol, closing in.
“No, wait,” Itadori stops him. “I did it so I should help.”
✽✽✽
Itadori cries through every goddamn second of the butchering, a constant, gurgling white noise in the back of Toji’s maxed out brain. It’s unbearable and Toji’s bleeding through his clothes and the shoddy bandages Shiwoo managed to get on him that were meant for the commute, not the calorie-burning activity known as chopping up a human body, bones, cartilage and all.
“What are you, fucking, filleting?” Toji snaps, noticing Itadori is taking his sweet time, like he’s planning on peeling back every layer of skin one by one. “Put your back into it. We’ll be here all night.”
“Dad,” Megumi snaps. Right, the whole murder is unusual thing.
“Sorry, baby,” Toji lowers his hackles, reaching across to touch Itadori’s cheek before noticing his hands are covered in human slime. “You’re doing great, doll,” he praises. Anything for praise, right? Bet Itadori regrets making that deal. Bet he wishes he had never stuck around.
“You’re bleeding.” Itadori stares at his shirt. In hindsight, the cream sweater had been a mistake but cops don’t stop men in cream sweaters because men in cream sweaters don’t usually go on a killing sprees on their past gang affiliations, then come home to find a dead body on their Turkish, camel-hair carpet.
“You’re hurt,” Itadori warbles — please, don’t cry — one hundred percent made of blood, other people’s blood, and snot. Toji wipes his hand on his shirt and reaches across the adult version game of doctor to thread their bloody fingers. And they say romance is dead.
Megumi makes great progress on what’s left, hacking away with the apathetic, blood-stained face of a little, fucking psychopath. Nice, equal-sized portions, like he’s serving meat at a Michelin star restaurant — the Zenin would be so proud.
“He used to kill people,” Toji explains. “The person you killed has killed so many people.”
This doesn’t look to be the encouragement Itadori was looking for, only working to terrify him further. Right, the whole murder gangs are unusual thing.
“Wh—why?” the kid stutters, confused. “Who—?”
“He raped me,” Megumi helps him. Itadori freezes. It’s a tough pill to swallow when he says it like that. “He was my handler. I was six when he first test drove me.”
Oh. In that case. Toji stands swiftly, raises his leg and kicks the guy’s face in, smashing through his skull. Repeatedly, over and over, keeps at it until the fucker’s brain turns to scrambled eggs.
Itadori vomits all over the floor. Yeah, well, that’s life.
“Get him washed and dressed,” Toji tells Megumi. “I’ll finish up.”
Megumi gets up, shaking his wet hands. Toji grabs his arm, stopping him before he leaves. “I’m proud of you,” he mutters under his breath.
“Told you, I’m good with a knife,” Megumi smiles faintly, though he knows exactly what Toji means.
“Actually,” Toji has a bright idea. “Go get the bat from your room.”
Megumi raises an eyebrow but leaves to retrieve it.
Toji digs into the bag and pulls out three stacks of hundreds, sets them on the kitchen table ‘cause the landlord is gonna need some serious scrubbing here, and he is a sensible, cultured man, who pays for his own shit.
Megumi returns with the metal bat, extending it to him. Toji pushes it back. “Daddy’ll teach you therapy and baseball at the same time.” He smirks, watching as Megumi realizes what’s being asked of him.
“It’s gonna get messy,” he says, smiling. See, this is what he does it for, that completely diabolical smile, fatherhood is so rewarding.
✽✽✽
The tub is tinged pink. Itadori has a hand on Toji’s wound, his body cuddled into Toji’s chest underneath the shower stream. He smells clean, like honey almond shampoo and himself. Toji washed and rinsed his hair twice. He runs his fingers on the new scratches on his cheeks.
“Sukuna,” Itadori mumbles. He drags Toji’s thumb up his face to wear it barely touches the faded white lines. “Like the legend. He was evil and he had four eyes.”
“You’re not a monster,” Toji reassures him. “I’ve seen monsters and you’re not one.”
Itadori sniffles, nodding. “If I’d known, I’d have killed him slower,” he grumbles, pouting adorably. Oh boy, that’s kind of cute, kind of insane, kind of what he never signed up for.
Toji laughs, shutting off the water. “We have to go.”
Rest in peace to his weapons collection, the floor mattress covered in cum stains, the collection of glasses he has stolen from bars that decided to kick him out early. He really thought he’d die here.
“But there’s more of them.” Itadori lets himself be wrapped in a towel. “They should all be dead for what they did to you.”
“Let’s not make that a character arc.” Toji ruffles his hair dry with the towel. “You’ve plenty of time to decide to avenge your clan’s death.”
✽✽✽
“I don’t even have words,” Shiwoo says once the brats are passed out in the backseat of their getaway car and Toji is finally having that cigarette. Megumi has Itadori’s head on his lap. They look wrecked.
“Don’t try me tonight,” Toji exhales smoke, crushing an empty can of Red Bull in his fist. “You couldn’t fucking splurge, giving me this shit.” He shows him the cigarette. “Might be the last time you see me.”
“I’m giving you a car.”
“Stolen.”
“Fine. How about the benefit of the doubt, coming in here five am, two kids, your guts hangin’ out. I thought you were taking me up on my dick sucking offer.”
“I offered,” Toji corrects. “And you still could.”
Shiwoo waves him off. “Where to?”
Toji drops the butt on the floor, stepping on it. He spits the taste off his mouth on his way to the car. “If I told you, you’d sell me out the Zenin tomorrow.”
“Damn right,” Shiwoo snorts. “Don’t make it too easy.” He leans over the driver’s door, glances back to shake his head again.
“Not a word,” Toji warns.
“Hey, you look good with the—what do they call them, the baby bag.” He makes a baby shape on his belly. “It suits you.”
“You know I’m not above tying up all loose ends.” Toji throws him a look. Shiwoo takes his dirty paws off the car, letting him drive off into the dark.
If this was a family movie, he’d look longingly at the rearview mirror and think he has raised such cute, well-adjusted kids.
Instead, he reaches for his jacket pocket and pulls out the stolen pack of cigars, pops a fat one in his mouth and lights it, drives with the windows down, hand hanging out, twenty miles above the speed limit with the bag of money sitting in the passenger seat, making great conversation.
[ 5 of 5 ]