Chapter Text
𓆩♡𓆪
“In time,
everyone fades away,
transfiguring into
echoes that latch
onto our memories
and bleed our hearts dry.”
― Barbara Garay, Beneath the Surface: A Book of Poems
𓆩♡𓆪
Utahime hadn't meant to sigh that loudly, but the paper in front of her demanded it.
Yuji Itadori had titled his essay Why Curses Are Basically Like Zombies, But Worse.
She blinked once, then leaned forward, skimming the first paragraph again just to make sure she hadn’t misread. No, she hadn’t. He had, in fact, drawn a direct comparison between rotting corpses and Grade One cursed spirits complete with a hand-drawn chart labeled “Zombies vs. Curses (Fight Potential + Drip).” Utahime closed her eyes briefly and counted to five.
Her pen hovered over the paper, then retreated like it couldn’t bring itself to be complicit in this.
“Why am I doing this,” she muttered under her breath, pushing Yuji’s paper aside with a defeated flick.
The next essay greeted her with all the subtlety of a brick to the face. Nobara Kugisaki. The title was aggressive, underlined twice in bright red ink: If You Think Mahito Was Hot, Seek Therapy: A Feminist Perspective.
Utahime made a choked sound somewhere between disbelief and laughter, then sat back in her chair. This was not her job. These were not her students. But here she was grading their wildly off-topic, disturbingly creative essays like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The tea she’d poured an hour ago had gone cold. Her own students’ assignments sat untouched in the corner. There were cursed object files to be sorted, warding regulations to review, and yet none of that was happening because she, a professional jujutsu teacher with years of experience, had agreed to cover for Gojo Satoru.
Because he had looked her in the eye this morning and said he was dying.
He hadn’t even had the decency to act convincingly ill. He’d thrown himself across her office couch, arm over his face like some stage actor, and declared in a trembling voice, “My limbs are weak… my cursed energy is fading… my students, so full of potential are left tragically ungraded.”
When she had ignored him, he had coughed into his sleeve with the subtlety of a foghorn and added, “If this is the end, at least let Nobara’s gender studies paper be seen.”
She should have kicked him out, set a seal on the door and left him to his nonsense. But no, because of the day before, because of the warm, stupid way her chest had felt when he’d bought her that damn matcha bun and grinned at her like they did this kind of thing all the time - she had said yes.
It wasn’t a date. They had gone to a bookstore. He had insisted she come because there was a new release on Edo-era barrier techniques, and when she hesitated, he had pulled that card he always played, "You owe me. Remember the cursed talisman I stopped for you last week? Or how about when I helped your students train and didn't even complain? - Okay, I complained a little."
She'd said no three times.
He’d asked five.
The fifth time, he’d smirked and said, “What, you scared you’ll enjoy spending time with me?”
That had been the beginning of the end.
Now she was emotionally compromised and grading homework she had no obligation to touch.
She picked up another essay, praying it would be reasonable and academically sound.
It was Yuta’s. The heading was promising. The handwriting was neat. Her shoulders relaxed slightly until her eyes caught the title: The Ethics of Using Cursed Techniques in Romantic Relationships: Asking for a Friend.
Utahime dragged both hands down her face and groaned. “What are they teaching these kids over there…”
She picked up another paper and braced herself.
Author: Panda.
She didn’t even know Panda got homework.
"Why I, a Bear (Technically), Deserve Extra Credit for Sentimental Labor in This Institution."
The essay began with a heartfelt plea about how stressful it was to be the glue of the group and ended with a sketch of him carrying Megumi and Yuji on his back labeled “me carrying the team emotionally AND academically.”
Utahime clapped a hand over her mouth and made a sound somewhere between a snort and a whimper. She shook her head, scribbled “B for audacity,” and moved on.
Next up was Maki Zen’in.
“Cursed Energy and Why It’s Useless When You Have Muscles and Rage.”
There was a diagram comparing cursed output to bicep diameter.
Utahime wheezed.
She was absolutely losing it. This was why she didn’t teach in Tokyo.
She had just reached the final page of Megumi's submission which had five lines of efficient commentary followed by an entire page of detailed anatomical sketches of Nue's wing joints, with notes on aerodynamic stress points - when a whoosh of cursed energy behind her made her sit up straight.
She turned.
Gojo was standing halfway through her office window, not even bothering with the door. His blindfold was off, pushed up into his hair. He looked mildly breathless and somehow less smug than usual, which meant something had gone terribly wrong.
“Don’t scream,” he said, palms up.
Utahime narrowed her eyes. “Why would I scream?”
He stepped in, eyeing the stack of papers on her desk like they were ticking bombs. “I need those back. Immediately.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The essays.” He gestured at the pile. “I need them. Right now. Before Yaga finds out I dumped my work on you and commits workplace violence.”
She crossed her arms. “So you’re here because you’re in danger, not because you felt bad about the mental deterioration I’ve suffered tonight.”
“That too!” he said quickly. “I care about your deterioration deeply. In fact, I’d say it’s one of my top three hobbies.”
“Out.”
“Seriously, Yaga’s doing rounds. He looked me in the eye and said, ‘Don’t even think about asking anyone else to grade your class again.’ I panicked. I laughed for too long. It got weird.”
Utahime stared.
He crept closer, like she was a cornered animal and he was the idiot poking it with a stick. “So. If you could just slide those over. Gently. With, you know, minimal judgment.”
She picked up one of the papers slowly.
“This one says 'Would Toji Fushiguro Have Been Hotter if He Paid Child Support?'”
He winced. “Ah. That was Manami’s. She asked me to proofread it. I didn’t.”
Utahime slapped it onto the stack and shoved the whole mess across the desk toward him. “Take them. All of them. Never speak to me again.”
Gojo hurriedly gathered the pile of stray essays while Utahime folded her arms with finality.
"Now leave."
He blinked, all wide-eyed innocence, which looked suspicious at best, criminal at worst. "What, already?"
"Yes. Already. You have your precious disaster pile. My part in this story ends here." She reached for her cold tea like it was a shield. "Preferably forever."
Gojo slung the stack under one arm. "I come seeking rescue, risking life and limb to reclaim incriminating documents, and now I'm being banished. So cruel."
"You’re disturbing my peace," she muttered, flipping open a new scroll which was not even hers, just something to look busy.
"But you’re not throwing anything," he said, wandering further into the room like he hadn't heard a word, "which means you don’t really want me gone."
Her eyes snapped to his.
"I am very close to changing that."
"But you haven’t," he said brightly, stepping around her desk, far too casually.
Utahime straightened in her chair. "Gojo."
He ignored the warning in her tone and kept moving.
"Maybe I just missed you. We had such a good time yesterday, didn’t we?" He tilted his head. "All those quiet aisles. All that lingering eye contact. You blushed when I handed you the bun."
"I didn’t blush - "
He was close now. Standing just beside her chair, too tall and relaxed, radiating warmth and amusement like it was cursed energy. She tried not to shrink back and failed a little.
Gojo leaned down slightly, lowering his voice just enough that it brushed against her skin when he spoke.
“You were smiling, Utahime. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”
Utahime stared forward with her spine straight, as if stillness could will him away.
He’s being annoying. He’s always annoying. This is very normal and infuriating and -
Why is he so close?
Her breath caught.
Gojo shifted then, just enough to slide one hand to the edge of her desk, anchoring himself there. The other came up lazily, like he had all the time in the world.
Then, with those familiar fingers, he raised her chin gently with just two fingers under her jaw.
She went completely still. Her heart thudded in her chest with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
His touch was barely there, but it burned. Her skin tingled where his fingers met her, and she knew he felt the way her breath hitched.
His eyes lit up like he’d just caught her in a secret.
“Oh,” he whispered, voice dripping with delighted realization. “Is this flustering you, Utahime?”
She jerked her head back, swatting his hand away so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. Her cheeks were on fire. Her voice, when it came, was strangled somewhere between fury and denial.
“No. No it is not. Don’t touch me. Don’t get all close and weird like that - what even was that? This is harassment! This is against protocol! There’s a rulebook somewhere!"
Gojo leaned back slightly. “Didn’t feel very rulebook-y a second ago.”
“Get OUT!”
He laughed, one hand raised in surrender, the other still holding the bundle of ridiculous essays like a shield. “Fine, fine. No need to yell. You’ll wake the cursed spirits.”
“There are no cursed spirits, you freak.”
“Because you scare them off, clearly.”
She grabbed the nearest scroll and flung it at him. He ducked, still laughing, already halfway to the window.
The window had barely stopped rattling behind him before it creaked open again.
“Actually,” Gojo said, peeking his head in like this was a neighborhood visit and not a violation of every known boundary, “I do have a real reason for being here.”
Utahime had just gotten her pulse back under control.
“Of course you do,” she muttered, rubbing her temple. “What is it? Did you leave another cursed tool in my kitchen? Is Shoko refusing to sew your arm back on again?”
“Nah,” he said cheerfully, slipping fully back into the room as if she’d invited him. “Yaga’s called us. Both of us. It’s a mission briefing, something classified, you know the drill.”
For a second, her irritation wavered. She hardly got called for fieldwork anymore because most of her time went into teaching. And she did miss the rush of danger and the feeling of being useful again after that mission years ago.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“Because,” he said, dropping the essays on her desk again like this was some tragic goodbye offering, “I wanted to see you.”
She blinked.
“See me suffer under your students’ idiocy, you mean.”
“Semantics,” he said, waving a hand.
She stood, hands on hips. “So you weren’t even worried about Yaga finding out I was grading your work?”
Gojo gave her a scandalized look. “Oh no, I want him to find out. It’ll make things easier.”
Utahime stared. “What?”
“He sees you helping and supporting me? He might finally accept the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That we’re deeply connected. That underneath all your rage and insults is a woman hopelessly drawn to me.”
She grabbed a paperweight. “Try again, or this is going through your skull.”
He dodged behind a chair. “Kidding, kidding. Well. Half-kidding. Look, I’m just saying if he ships us, maybe I’ll finally get to sit next to you at meetings.”
“I’d rather sit next to a special grade curse.”
He tsked. “And they say romance is dead.”
She groaned, already moving toward the door. “You are so annoying. What’s the mission?”
Gojo straightened suddenly and become barely more serious. “Didn’t say. Just that it’s urgent.”
“Cursed activity?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just misses yelling at us side-by-side. Our bickering has range.”
Utahime muttered curses under her breath as she stepped around Gojo and made for the door. At least she had the day off; Nitta could handle the students for once. Maybe it was good timing, she’d been restless and itching for something outside the classroom.
She’d barely reached for the handle when his voice floated behind her.
“Want me to teleport us?”
She turned slowly. “No.”
Gojo tilted his head. “Oh come on, you’d really rather take a whole train when I can zip us there in like, two seconds?”
“I’d rather not be manhandled through space by a human migraine, thanks.”
“Human migraine?” He curved his lips. “That’s new. I like it.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not teleporting with you.”
He stepped closer. “Uta. It’s cold. You’ll have to walk. There might be stairs. Do you really want that for yourself?”
She glared. Unfortunately, he had a point. Tokyo was far away and she didn’t have time to mess around with public transport when Yaga was involved. She huffed. “Fine. But keep your hands to yourself.”
He blinked innocently. “I always do.”
“You literally don’t.”
But he was already moving, stepping into her space with that practiced ease that made her feel like she’d just leaned too far over a balcony.
“Ready?” he asked.
She wasn’t, but she gave a small nod anyway.
His hand slid around her waist - why was it always the waist - and his fingers brushed against her arm like they were just finding balance. It was not deliberate. But God, why did it make her heart jolt like that?
The world blinked.
That’s what it always felt like, when Gojo teleported. Like the entire atmosphere held its breath for half a second. One moment they were in her office with the smell of ink and tea and the next they were somewhere entirely different.
A rush of wind. A low pop in her ears. A swirl of pressure like she’d just stepped into deep water. And then the cold Tokyo air hit her face.
Even before she registered the temple roof in the distance or the torii gate they’d landed beside, all she could think about was him.
His arm still around her. His fresh and sharp cologne which smelled like cedar. The way her heart hadn’t stopped hammering since the second he’d touched her.
She stepped away so fast she nearly tripped.
They walked inside in silence, side by side. Temple roofs glinted in the distance, and Utahime tried to focus on the path, not on the man strolling beside her.
Gojo had his hands in his pockets, humming something off-key like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like he hadn’t just wrapped an arm around her waist and teleported her like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t messing with her system every damn second he was near.
She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag and looked away.
Why did she let this happen? Why did she always let him in just enough to throw her off balance?
It was always like this with him. Since school. He annoyed her constantly by calling names and pulling pranks. He talked during lectures and somehow still managed to score top marks, the infuriating bastard. But then -
Then he’d silently drop an umbrella on her desk on rainy days and pretend it wasn’t for her.
Then he’d leave a can of her favorite coffee outside the faculty room before morning meetings and act like he didn’t know she’d find it.
Then he’d defend her in front of higher-ups without her ever asking by saying things like “She’s better than all of you combined, actually,” with that arrogance that somehow sounded like truth when it came from him.
She didn’t get it. The teasing, the kindness and the constant push and pull that left her wondering if he even realized the kind of whiplash he caused.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was squinting up at the temple roof now, muttering something about whether they’d be forced into a mission together again and how Yaga owed him for last time.
Utahime sighed. She had to get a grip.
It was just Gojo. Just the usual.
He’d annoy her. Then do something irritatingly sweet. Then she’d pretend it meant nothing.
The sliding door creaked open as they stepped into Yaga’s office, the air instantly cooler with disciplined and absolutely done with whatever energy Gojo brought in.
“Satoru,” Yaga said flatly without looking up from his paperwork, “sit down and try not to ruin the atmosphere.”
Gojo flopped into the nearest chair, legs spreading like he owned the room. “You say that like I bring destruction, Yaga-sensei. I’m a soothing presence.”
Utahime closed the door behind her and gave a quick bow before sitting beside him, straight-backed and composed - if one could look composed while very consciously not leaning too close to the idiot next to them.
Yaga didn’t bother replying. He just slid a file across the desk.
“There’s a tunnel outside of Tokyo. It collapsed a year ago due to some old train route through the mountains that was sealed off after a landslide,” he said. “Lately, people have been sneaking in. A few of them claim to have heard whispers. Some say they came out freezing cold even though the temperature outside was normal. And one girl collapsed after seeing something crawling on the tunnel walls.”
Utahime frowned. “A cursed spirit?”
“Possibly. Maybe more than one. It could be that the whole place has become a cursed zone,” Yaga said. “Which is where you two come in.”
Gojo tilted his head. “This some kind of couples’ retreat?”
Utahime’s eye twitched. “Do you want me to punch you in front of your superior?”
“See? The flirting never ends.”
“Utahime,” Yaga said, ignoring Gojo’s antics, “your technique might be the edge we need. If the curse is anchored deep or layered with barriers, amplifying Gojo’s output could help clear it faster especially if we only get one shot at it. Your support may be the key to ending it cleanly.”
That part made sense. Utahime nodded, eyes narrowing in thought.
“And Gojo?” she asked, already preparing for a reason like “Because he refused to let anyone else have the spotlight.”
Yaga didn’t even blink. “Because he’s Gojo. If it is a high-level spirit or worse, a cursed phenomenon anchored to multiple objects, you’ll need someone with Six Eyes and Limitless. Plus, I don't trust him not to wander into a death zone alone.”
Gojo beamed. “He cares.”
Yaga looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t.”
Utahime bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smirk.
“There’s a possibility,” Yaga said, flipping another page, “that you’ll have to stay inside the tunnel longer than planned. A day, maybe two, depending on how deep the curse goes. Space and sound behave… strangely in there. The reports mention whispers and echoes coming from impossible directions.”
“And the echoes are not random,” he continued. “They confront your fears, your regrets, even your desires. Everything you’ve buried or ignored. Stay close. Don’t get separated. And remember… what you hear may not be real, but it will feel real enough to shake you.”
Utahime nodded again, all business.
Or, she tried to be. But then Gojo shifted slightly beside her, his thigh brushing against hers under the low office table - and her mind betrayed her.
One or two days inside a narrow, cursed tunnel. With Gojo. With no one else. No space.
It would be just her, the world’s most infuriating man, and proximity that had already driven her half-mad in normal settings.
She kept her face calm.
Gojo leaned back with a low whistle, smirking at her like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Yaga stood and handed them both the mission brief. “Depart as soon as possible. Pack lightly. Be ready for anything.”
Utahime took the file with her hands.
As the heavy wooden door to Yaga’s office creaked shut behind them, Gojo stretched his arms above his head like they’d just finished some grand performance.
“I see that look, Utahime,” he drawled, turning to walk backward so he could face her. “You’re thrilled, aren’t you? A cursed tunnel! Whispering shadows! Prolonged, unavoidable proximity with me! It’s practically a honeymoon.”
Utahime didn’t even look at him. She simply walked forward, face neutral, hands buried in her sleeves.
Meanwhile, her brain was in absolute meltdown.
A cursed tunnel with whispers and echoes.
What kind of whispers? Cursed spirit mutterings? Imitations of voices from your past? Or something more… psychological?
The echoes… did they just bounce off the walls, or linger unnaturally long like memories stuck in a loop?
Great.
Then there was the part Yaga had oh-so-casually tossed in at the end -
“You’ll likely need to remain on-site for one to two days. Pack accordingly.”
One to two days, trapped in a haunted tunnel, with Gojo Satoru.
He who could not walk five minutes without saying something idiotic. Who couldn’t stand behind her without making it a thing. Who had no sense of space or shame or boundaries.
Utahime closed her eyes for a second and inhaled.
Gojo was still walking backward ahead of her, chatting away.
“Bet you’re already thinking of reasons to thank me. I mean, how often do you get to spend a night underground with Tokyo’s most charming sorcerer?” He winked. “We’ll make whispers in the dark a whole new genre.”
“Shut up before I seal your mouth shut,” she muttered.
When they finally reached the end of the courtyard, she folded her arms and glanced sidelong at him.
“I’m going back to my apartment,” she said curtly. “To pack.”
“Wait,” Gojo blinked. “You’re just gonna leave me? Alone? With my thoughts?”
“I’ll survive,” she deadpanned.
He jogged a few steps to catch up beside her. “Okay, but what if I die of boredom while you're gone? Huh? Wouldn't you feel awful?”
“Not even a little.”
“C’mon, Hime,” he lengthened the nickname until it sounded almost obscene. “Just let me come with you. I won’t even snoop around. I’ll sit quietly like a well-behaved guest. Promise.”
He held up two fingers in a solemn mock scout’s oath.
Utahime - damn her - looked at his stupid face and his goddamn irritating persistence, and her brain said: No.
But her heart said: Ugh, fine.
He'd annoy her to no end, tease her until she saw red, and then just when she was ready to murder him he’d say something vulnerable or smile like he actually meant it, and something in her just... relented.
“...Fine,” she muttered.
His grin was so wide she wanted to slap it off.
They teleported a moment later, and once again, Utahime cursed her existence.
When they landed in her living room a blink later - she stiffened, fully intending to step back with dignity and grace.
Except she couldn't move, because her legs were apparently more interested in soaking in the heat of him than preserving her sanity.
“Still hate teleporting with me?” Gojo asked, a low tease in his voice.
Utahime’s spine straightened like a snapped bowstring. She stepped away so fast she nearly tripped over her own rug. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You’re so mean to me in your own home,” he said. “It’s giving repressed feelings.”
She didn’t respond and turned away sharply, pulling open a drawer just to busy her hands. She had barely flung her travel bag onto the bed when she heard the unmistakable sound of Gojo’s footsteps padding right into her bedroom.
She spun around instantly. “This is my room - ”
“Wow.” He cut her off, already halfway inside, sweeping his gaze across the space with zero shame. “You live like someone who talks to forest spirits and makes tea for ghosts.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means it's warm. Like you collect weird antique keys and press flowers in your spare time.”
Utahime crossed her arms. “I do not press flowers.”
He raised an eyebrow, then walked toward her bookshelf and plucked out a thick hardcover. Tucked inside, neatly dried between the pages, was a faded camellia blossom.
She snatched the book from his hand. “That was for research.”
“Research,” he echoed, clearly trying not to smile while he turned a slow circle, eyes scanning everything - her string lights, the cozy throw on her chair, the little shrine of vintage tea tins on her windowsill. Then he caught sight of the frog-shaped paperweight on her desk and lost it.
“No way. You’re into frogs?! This changes everything.”
“It was a gift from a student,” she hissed, already flushing. “Don’t act like you’re better. Your apartment has an entire wall covered in cursed sunglasses.”
“Those are statement pieces.”
“This frog is supportive.”
He barked out a laugh and, before she could stop him, flopped down onto the edge of her bed. She stared at him in disbelief.
“Gojo. Get up.”
“Why?” he asked, laying back on his elbows, the picture of audacity. “I’m helping.”
“You’re breathing all over my duvet.”
“That’s not all I could do to it,” he murmured under his breath.
Utahime turned away quickly, cheeks blazing, and tried to focus on packing her mission clothes. But her hands refused to cooperate as she fumbled over neatly folded uniforms and spare. She tossed a folded haori into the bag a little too forcefully, and it slid right off the edge and onto the floor.
Then she knelt by the drawer and yanked it open with a little too much force, like sheer aggression could somehow make this less humiliating.
Tthis was the nightwear drawer. She was now realizing with a kind of horrified clarity that every single set of sleepwear she owned was... not exactly mission-appropriate. Or Gojo-Satoru-present-appropriate.
Every piece was some mix of silk, cotton, and pale pastels with delicate things covered in ribbons, sakura embroidery, and the occasional ridiculous frog with an umbrella.
She held up one baby blue nightshirt with a cartoon plum blossom stitched over the pocket and instantly tossed it back in.
Behind her, Gojo made a little hum. She froze.
“You know,” his voice drifted lazily from the bed, “for someone with a reputation for being scary and severe, your pajamas say, ‘I drink warm milk and believe in soulmates.’”
She turned, red-faced, and glared at him. He was still sprawled out on her bed, arms behind his head like a damn prince.
“Don’t look,” she snapped.
“I already saw the pink one with the peaches.”
That’s for summer.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” he said, chuckling. “You’ve got a whole fruit aesthetic going on, huh? Very cottagecore.”
“Get out.”
But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head and pointed. “Wait, wait. That one’s cute.”
She followed his gaze where he was looking at the pale lavender set with tiny embroidered bunnies.
“I hate you,” she muttered.
“No, you don’t,” he said, smug as hell. “If you did, you’d have kicked me out of your apartment by now.”
She had no argument for that. She should have. But instead she was throwing things into the bag without looking, praying she didn’t accidentally pack the strawberry-print shorts with the ruffles.
Her thoughts were getting worse by the second and spiraled in circles like: What if he actually sees her wear these? What if she forgets and walks out in the frog one?
She zipped the bag with unnecessary force.
Gojo stretched and lay back again. “If your jujutsu technique is cursed energy amplification, I think mine is embarrassment amplification.”
This time she threw a slipper at his head.
He caught it easily as she turned away.
Her bag was finally zipped after she’d shoved in enough plain, boring clothes to smother the pastel horrors of her regular sleepwear. It bulged a little on one side, where the offending bunny-print top still nestled somewhere beneath the safer layers. Whatever. She’d pretend it didn’t exist.
Utahime stood and brushed her hands on her skirt.
“Get up. We’re leaving,” she said.
He stretched like a cat and stepped closer, fingers brushing the fabric of her sleeve without asking, the same casual intimacy he always wielded like a weapon. “Ready?”
No, she was not ready.
Her hand still found his forearm anyway, like her body had given up arguing with itself.
Gojo’s cursed energy pulsed beneath his skin in a familiar and electric manner. And then the ground disappeared.
When the air cleared, Utahime found herself standing in the middle of a narrow, cracked road on the outskirts of an abandoned village. Cold air whispered through the trees. The sky was overcast, casting everything in grey.
She didn’t look at him.
“Let’s go,” she muttered. “The sooner we finish this, the better.”
Behind her, Gojo followed as if they were strolling into a cafe and not a cursed tunnel full of haunted whispers.
The village looked like it had been peeled from a sepia-toned photograph and left out in the rain.
Dilapidated wooden houses lined the crooked path, their roofs caved in and their windows hollow. A rusted swing creaked in the wind, swaying slightly, even though the air was still. Moss clung to walls like old secrets. The sky above was the dull grey of wet ash and clouds hung so low it felt like they were pressing down on the land itself.
Utahime adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, squinting toward the tunnel entrance in the distance, nestled into the hills like a wound in the earth. That was their destination.
But what made her slow her steps wasn't the chill, but the sound.
A whisper.
She turned. There was nothing except Gojo, a few steps behind, walking with hands in his pockets, humming something tuneless.
She kept walking.
Then, again.
A soft voice, so close it felt like it brushed the shell of her ear.
“Utahime! Why’re you always so mad? You like me or somethin’?”
She stopped in her tracks.
It had sounded exactly like a younger Gojo. That particular cadence he’d had when they were still students, before he towered over her and before he wore blindfolds like he was hiding the entire world from himself.
She looked over her shoulder. Gojo was still walking behind her, now eating from a bag of chips he’d somehow conjured out of nowhere.
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“…Nothing,” she said.
She moved forward again, a little faster this time.
But it didn’t stop.
With each step, the air buzzed faintly in her ears, not quite sound, not quite silence. A girl’s laugh - her own? - drifting through the alley behind a crumbled wall. Then Gojo again. That same schoolboy tone.
“You’ll thank me one day. Being cute must be exhausting. Good thing I’m here to balance things out with my charisma.”
Utahime clenched her jaw.
Nope. Nope. Nope. She was not hearing things. Or maybe she was. That was the point of this curse, wasn’t it? Whispers. Echoes. Memories twisted just enough to make you question them.
But why these memories?
She shook her head and muttered, “This place sucks.”
Behind her, Gojo said, “Right? It's like a bad horror movie… missing the hot female lead.”
Utahime just walked faster.
After a stretch of silence, Gojo spoke up again. “Alright, as much as I’m enjoying this stroll through Creepsville, maybe we should find an inn before something jumps out and curses us.”
She shot him a flat look over her shoulder. “And where exactly do you plan to find one in this fog?”
He tapped a finger to the edge of his blindfold. “You forget who you’re talking to. I can see one.”
Utahime hesitated, half-convinced he was bluffing, but then she caught a faint golden glow in the distance.
Gojo started forward, and Utahime followed, every sense alert.
The golden light grew slightly brighter, casting a wavering glow over the path as they approached.
The signboard swung on a broken hinge, the lettering faded into unreadability. The inside smelled of damp wood and the faintest trace of incense.
“Bit rustic,” Gojo said cheerfully, running a hand along the wall, “but I’ve stayed in worse. Remember that time we had to camp in a demon graveyard? At least this one has a roof.”
Utahime didn’t answer, because she heard them again.
“You’re so easy to fluster. It's adorable.”
She clenched her fists. Not real. It’s not real.
Gojo leaned forward.
The innkeeper was an elderly woman with a face full of deep laugh lines, seated behind the reception desk that seemed almost as old as the village itself. She hadn’t said a word when Utahime and Gojo stepped in - just observed them quietly, like she’d seen their type before.
Gojo, of course, was unfazed. He flashed his brightest smile and strolled up to the desk like he was checking into a five-star resort.
“Evening, obaachan,” he said smoothly, leaning his elbows on the counter. “We’ll be needing one room. Preferably with a strong roof and a creaky bed.”
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. “Just one room?”
Gojo nodded solemnly, resting a hand over his heart. “You see, my new wife and I are very much in love. Newlyweds, in fact.”
Utahime opened her mouth in horror. “We are not - ”
He cut her off with a stage-whisper, “Hush, darling, don’t be shy,” then turned back to the innkeeper, voice low and conspiratorial. “You know how it is. The nightly passions of youth. Better to keep the noises contained to one room, ne?”
The old woman snorted.
Utahime slapped a hand over her own face, burning.
The innkeeper slid the key across the counter without flinching. “End of the hall. Don't break the walls.”
“Oh, no promises,” Gojo gave a sly smile.
Utahime snatched the key before he could, stomping toward the hallway in an embarrassed blur.
Behind her, Gojo called out cheerfully, “You coming, my love? We need to... unpack.”
She didn’t turn around.
His voice again.
“Oi, Utahime - are you really this grumpy all the time or just when I’m around?”
She clenched her fists, her boots thudding softly against the wood as she walked faster. These weren’t real.
“You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone, you know.”
Her throat tightened.
Not real. Not real.
She turned the last corner, her fingers fumbling for the key. “Please,” she muttered under her breath. “Please let there be two futons.”
Gojo leaned lazily against the doorframe. “Whatcha whisperin’, Hime? A prayer?”
She shot him a glare, shoved the key in, and pushed the door open -
- and froze.
There was just one bed. It wasn’t even a wide one. A plain, rickety, creaky-looking single bed, tucked against the wall like it knew it was about to ruin someone’s life.
Utahime did not move.
Gojo stepped inside casually, plopping himself right onto the edge of the bed, making it creak in complaint.
She was still in the doorway, clutching her bag like a shield, every nerve on fire with awkwardness and horror.
“Long mission ahead, huh?” Gojo beamed. “Better get comfy.”
As she stood frozen, one foot inside the room, the whisper snuck past her ear -
“Careful, Utahime… I might just haunt you forever.”