All my life I've been searching for something

Something I can put my finger on

friends,

The weather was terrible—Masamichi Yaga always thought Tokyo weather fluctuated too uneasily for his liking. He could feel the darkness creeping across the sky as he waited inside his office, mostly unperturbed by the mauve twisting around clouds. What was irritating him more than the blotty arrival of nightfall outside his window, was the indisputable fact that Gojo Satoru rarely arrived on time.

Having the young man at his doorstep was harder than lighting a match in the rain. And believe me, Masamichi has tried.

Masamichi found himself rubbing the ridge of his nose in vain. A wave of exhaustion rolled over his dismal expression, largely from the relentless meetings that overwhelmed his schedule as of late. He had heard the name 'Ryoumen Sukuna' more times in the last week than his entire life—that told him more than enough about the troubled state of the sorcerer world in the present.

That haunting name, full of carnage and evil. It chilled him ever so slightly. Masamichi would never say he would be afraid of such matters—compared to what he had lived through, it seemed almost trivial. Yet, there was a certain tension to his shoulders when the matter was discussed amongst the lips of the elders. Sukuna. Su-ku-na.

His eyes quietly flitted to the window, face paled by the dry and grey clouds. The weather did more than unsettle; it was an omen, a foreboding of what will come. Masamichi knew that there was a deep secret once stitched in the past, a secret that was being pried open by the higher ups and their babbling.

Such meetings which filled his head over the last few days were at first glance, typical. The general stir of curses that came from human dissatisfaction, their usurping increases, the power struggle amongst the clans. And now this.

When he first read the report it almost astounded him that such events went quietly unnoticed for six years. That the [L/n] clan still lived on. That you existed.

His nails dug deeper into his stuffed doll.

And after the half an hour of silence to himself, Masamichi watched unamused as Gojo Satoru sauntered into his office, a place both knew quite well.

The tall man was wearing something that fell short of a grin on his pale face, lips barely twisted into something tense; it looked as if he was bothered by something. What is was, Masamichi had neither the intent nor the means to uncover. After all, Gojo was a man veiled by many secrets, ones that hid behind nonchalant eyes and wrinkles of a smile. He was someone that took years to take apart, slowly and gently, with human hands and fragile lies. Once fractured, he could never ever be repaired. And now, he walks as though on broken glass, like the blood of his past could measure up to the strength of his mind.

"Satoru," Masamichi was blunt; he gritted between his teeth, almost frustrated, "Do I need to buy you a wristwatch?"

Despite the blindfold, Gojo's expression was plausible to read. A quick, fleeting yet memorable smile flaunted his face, "Gomen, Masamichi-sensei! At least I know what you'll be getting me for my birthday."

His hair was a reminder of something long gone and lost; battleship grey when deprived of light under the ghoulish moon, but also the colour of snow in springtime. Sometimes it wavered between those two states, of crushed ice in winter ponds frozen over, or the swan's wing around sakura blossoms. Such strands did not fare to become a silver lining in the wound he was digging further into, merely presenting Gojo as pure, sane, loved.

But it was a sad colour. When Gojo stares at himself in mirrors with a false grandeur, he knows that this colour is what he reaped because purity is a lie, and nothing ever remains innocent in a world where he plays both god and the fool.

"I presume you've read the reports," Masamichi sighed, wondering if he could get someone to fetch him an ice pack for his sore temple. The headache plaguing him would not go away any time soon, that much he could tell. "No, I expect you've read the reports." He corrected himself, setting the basic expectations between him and his subordinate.

Gojo's expression became scarily neutral; whatever playful mannerism he adorned when with colleagues and friends had disappeared into the fog of his mind. Even though Masamichi had known Gojo for a long time, it disturbed him how he could not read the man's mind, nor come to a comprehensible understanding of him.

It was a brief expression—the curious poker face. But it told more of Gojo than anything else. Even when Masamichi read the reports, he was almost sickened by the higher ups and their tedious radicalism. The contents were detailed but a narrative poised of bias, deliberately constructed to turn any remnant of Ryoumen Sukuna into the devil incarnate. It construed falsehoods in a shameless fashion, but it also revealed the horrifying picture of sorcery.

Where there is good—the light, the love, the tamed jujutsu—there is evil. Both must exist because both depend on each other. It is a humiliating reality to understand no matter what you fight for, the foe at the end of your path will never be quelled. Time becomes an eternal plateau. Until time itself erodes and the demons corrupt the good.

Gojo nods, "I read over it a few times, but I don't see why I'm needed. After all, I'm doing just fine teaching here!" He grins, hands on hips.

Masamichi was unfazed; it was likely a grin to mask his true expression. "The [Last Name] clan was unanimously associated with Ryoumen Sukuna. Once he was subdued, the clan were eviscerated from history books thousands of years ago. They quietly died off and the last heir they had that could control Cursed Energy died in the 19th century."

He paused, his gaze falling onto the report at his desk, "They've shed their past and become more adept."

"Mm," Masamichi had caught Gojo's interest. "Go on."

The principal looked dryly at his collection of cursed dolls, huddled together in the corner of the candle-lit room. He pursed his lips, "This report was sanctioned by myself and myself only. The higher ups were jittery over the matter of the clan so I recently looked into this matter. I suspect that the most recent descendant is a jujutsu sorcerer in the making."

Gojo beamed, his lips stretching thin into a Cheshire cat-like smile, "Oooh, Masamichi-sensei! You should have started on that. I didn't read up until then. You have to tell me everything now."

In the ancient world, where gods fell to their knees every day under the magic of humans, the [Last Name] clan flitted between the enemy and the ally. Once affiliated with Ryoumen Sukuna, they fell out of favour and upon no longer being pressed under the Demon King's thumb, found solace in the human world.

Though they were hateful of non-shamans, they understood that no sane person in the jujutsu world would come within an inch of them. And with the little followers they had, they maintained a lifeline of their sorcerer art, passed from generation to generation.

"She can most definitely see Cursed Energy," Masamichi affirmed. Though the data on the report was a little sluggish, it narrated a childhood full of curses and power. "What is the key distinction however, is as to whether she can control it."

Gojo tilted his head, apparently intrigued, "What's the kid's name?"

Masamichi exhaled—the name was auspicious. He knew that. "[L/n] [F/n]. It appears she kept her mother's maiden name, which is why she was about to be found. [L/n] attends the same school that you sent Fushiguro to this morning: the school with the Sukuna talisman."

"That's... definitely not a coincidence," Gojo's reply was slow, as though he was taking in each sentence.

"It was most likely orchestrated by the clan. Once the Cursed Energy had been felt in that school, they would have sent her there. It is unknown if [L/n] is a lackey or has full knowledge of her ancestry and her clan's intentions. Therefore, I ask you to keep a tab or two on her. Perhaps, make a conscious effort to settle her here."

Settle her here? Gojo's skeleton may as well have jumped out of his body. "Me?" He raises an eyebrow—well, Masamichi assumes he does so as he's wearing a blindfold, "She's powerful, so that's why you want her out of the higher ups' hands."

"If you bothered to closely scrutinise the report, Satoru, you would see it. The [L/n] clan's power is an anomaly. They bring their own self-destruction and the death of [L/n] [F/n]'s mother, which hadn't been brought to my attention until now, shows this. [F/n] must be watched. She is too unstable to be kept alone. And at sixteen years of age, her jujutsu will be extremely infantile."

"Hah," Gojo sighs, sticking his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms, "You harass her too much without even knowing her."

He turned, moving towards the door in a suave manner. Masamichi thought he was acting far too casual for ending a conversation of such calibre. "I'll tag along with Megumi then," Gojo exhales.

The tall man left the room and Masamichi stared at the document on his desk. Ryoumen Sukuna... what are you planning?