Chapter 29: Something Old, Something New
The first sliver of dawn peeked through the curtains, a soft gray light that did little to dispel the cozy dimness of the hotel room. I shifted, the rustle of sheets drawing my eyes open. Nobara lay beside me, her breath a warm whisper against my chest. A smile curved my lips before I could stop it. Memories of the night flooded back – the shared ramen, the fiery touch of her skin, the way she cried out my name... It felt like a lifetime ago, a dream painted in neon and starlight.
Her lashes fluttered, then she blinked up at me, sleep blurring the edges of those usually fierce eyes. "Well, hello there," she murmured, the hint of a smile playing on her lips.
"Hey yourself," I replied, my voice husky. Leaning down, I captured her mouth in a soft kiss, a lingering taste of sake and something sweeter, something uniquely her.
We stayed like that for a while, tangled limbs, the rhythm of our breathing a sweet melody in the quiet. It was one of those rare moments where time lost all meaning, where nothing existed beyond this cocoon of warmth and contentment. But reality had a way of creeping in, even into the most sacred of havens.
Tokyo. Gojo. The debrief. The looming uncertainty of every mission, of every day we woke up as jujutsu sorcerers. It was like a rain cloud slowly darkening the edges of this sun-soaked moment.
A flicker of something – worry? determination? – shadowed her eyes. She sat up, pulling a sheet across her with unconscious modesty. "We should get ready," she said, her voice quiet. The shift in the room was subtle, but I felt it all the same.
I sat up too, that familiar battle-ready part of me stretching awake. "As much as I love the view, you're probably right." I shot her a grin, trying to lighten the mood.
Nobara returned a half-smile. We might be lovers, but we were still sorcerers. Breakfast could wait. Instead, I reached for her hand, the calluses and scars on mine a map of battles shared. Her fingers threaded through mine, strong and sure.
"We'll get through this," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "The missions, Gojo's weirdness, whatever they throw at us – we'll handle it."
"Together," I agreed, and the word echoed between us, a vow heavier than any sorcerer's oath. I'd face down a thousand curses if it meant getting back to stolen nights like these, back to this woman who saw every part of me and still chose to stay.
The corner of her mouth lifted in that smirk I'd come to adore. "Together," she echoed, squeezing my hand. "Besides," she added with a wink, "a little insanity like Gojo never hurt anyone. Well, not anyone important."
Packing felt different this morning. Every folded shirt held the lingering warmth of her skin, the ghost of her perfume. Even the battered ramen guide I'd found online was infused with new meaning. I shoved it all down anyway, ignoring the ache in my chest.
Nobara was already dressed. She stood by the window, not gazing at the bustling Hokkaido streets, but lost in her own thoughts. She always looked fierce in the jujutsu uniform, but now beneath the blue, I saw glimpses of the woman from last night, the softness she hid from the world but had offered to me.
It was time to go. I met her gaze, and a silent message passed between us, acknowledging this shift back out of our little bubble. I didn't need to say anything, and neither did she.
Fushiguro was waiting in the lobby, his usual stoicism in place. But I swore I saw a flicker in his dark eyes when he looked between me and Nobara, a question he was too polite to ask. Maybe Fushiguro wasn't as oblivious as I'd thought.
We found a quiet booth in the hotel's attached cafe. I ordered something strong and black, figuring I'd need the caffeine to cut through the bittersweet cocktail of relief and dread.
"So," Nobara began, breaking the strained silence as plates were laid before us. "We found the cursed object, and dealt with it, right?"
"Right," I confirmed. "Though the cleanup crew will be having nightmares about that thing..." I shuddered, remembering the way it had pulsed and throbbed in the dank basement.
Fushiguro, ever the strategist, cut in. "The intel was good. This whole thing could have been messier. But there are... implications."
I took a sip, the coffee scalding my tongue. "Like the higher-ups realizing sending us off on every half-baked lead might be a terrible idea?"
Nobara nudged me under the table, but I didn't miss the quirk of her lips. It was nice, this semblance of normal, the teasing banter hiding the tension beneath our casual facade.
Fushiguro remained unfazed. "Like the potential for more objects of this kind," he clarified, his gaze focused on his untouched plate. "The pattern suggests..."
The rest of breakfast was a blur of tactical discussions, our shared dread of the future clinging to us like another shadow. With each passing minute, Hokkaido of last night faded into a cherished memory, a place where the world was simple: good ramen, stolen nights, and a woman who made me feel more human than I'd ever thought possible.
Finally, it was time to leave. We walked out into the cool morning air, the city a different beast than the one that we entered into. As we hailed a taxi, I stole a last glance back. Hokkaido wasn't the same. Or maybe I wasn't.
The Tokyo train station hit me hard.The crowds, the roar of announcements, the sheer relentless energy of it all – it was overwhelming after the quiet intimacy of Hokkaido.
I caught Fushiguro tense, his usual scowl deepening. Even Nobara didn't crack a joke, her gaze distant as we pushed our way through the crowd.
Then I saw him. Ijichi, waiting by the taxi line, his expression graver than I'd ever seen it. That familiar knot of dread settled in my stomach. This was it. Briefing time.
"Gojo-sensei and the higher-ups await," he said as we piled into the cab. His voice held a note of resignation I knew all too well. It was the echo of every 'this mission probably won't kill you, right?' pep talk.
The drive was a blur. Tokyo was a familiar beast, but right now, its vibrancy felt abrasive. Buildings blurred past the window, reflections of neon and hurried people blurring into a meaningless swirl. I focused on the one solid thing in this kaleidoscope of chaos: Nobara's hand resting on the seat between us. For a brief second, I let myself reach out, our fingers intertwining.
Jujutsu College loomed ahead and Ijichi didn't even try to make small talk. We followed him down silent corridors, the weight of what was to come pressing on my shoulders with each step.
Finally, we reached the meeting room. Nobara squeezed my hand one last time. For a moment, the warrior in her met my eyes, steel against steel. Then we squared our shoulders, and stepped inside.
Gojo sat at the head of the polished table, his carefree grin replaced by something unreadable. Principal Yaga beside him was a statue carved from worry lines, and the other higher-ups – stuffy men whose names were less important than their power – stared down at us with predatory interest.
"Well?" Gojo finally broke the silence, his voice deceptively light. "Don't leave us hanging. Did you enjoy Hokkaido?"
A flicker of humor sparked in Nobara's eyes, but it died before it could fully ignite. "Let's just say the ramen scene was the highlight," she said, her tone just shy of defiant.
I shared a look with Fushiguro. It was time to give up the ghost – or the cursed object, I guess.
Fushiguro started, his voice as precise as ever. He laid out the facts: the rumors we followed, the discovery of the object, its pulsing, malignant energy. He described the fight, the way the creatures we faced fed off the object's power, their twisted forms mirroring its corruption. Even Ijichi, perched on a chair near the back, looked a little green around the gills as Fushiguro's description brought the whole mess back in gruesome detail.
I followed up, filling in the gaps, emphasizing the strangeness of the whole thing. "It wasn't just powerful…" I explained. "This... it felt different. Old." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "Like we just scratched the surface of something much bigger."
Nobara cut to the heart of it. "The cleanup crew mentioned similar incidents. It's a pattern, right? There's more of these things out there." Her fingers tapped the table, a restless rhythm echoing the unease gnawing at all of us.
Now the higher-ups stirred, their whispers a rustle of expensive fabric and brittle ambition. Principal Yaga steepled his fingers, his sharp eyes fixed on us. "This is... troubling. Do you have any theories on their origin, their purpose?"
Fushiguro and I exchanged a look. This was it, the crux of the danger. It wasn't just about a single mission completed, it was about some lurking darkness we'd barely glimpsed. Finally, I spoke, the words heavy on my tongue, "We don't know. Yet."
Gojo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers with mock solemnity. For the first time today, a hint of his usual grin returned, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. "Well, then," he purred, "best if we got on that, don't you think?"
A flurry of whispered voices washed over us, the higher-ups huddled like buzzards. Their words were clipped, laced with political jargon and strategic concerns. They were playing their games, and we were the pieces – valuable, but expendable. I clenched my fists, the urge to yell, to demand answers, bubbling up until Fushiguro nudged my arm, a silent warning.
Then, like a switch being flipped, the chatter died. The head honcho – a man whose face was an unchanging mask of wrinkles – cleared his throat. "The situation is... complex," he rasped. I wanted to snort. Complex was an understatement when you're dealing with ancient cursed objects.
"We acknowledge the severity of your findings," he continued, his beady eyes scanning our faces. "Rest assured, this will be dealt with by more… seasoned sorcerers." The dismissal in his tone was almost as chilling as the cursed object itself.
"And my team?" I asked, maybe a bit bolder than was wise. He'd just taken us off the board, relegated us to bystanders in a game where our lives were at stake. "What about us?"
Another man, bald and polished, gave a condescending half-smile. "Your reports have been invaluable," he purred. "This experience will serve you well in future assignments." In other words, back to your regularly scheduled suicide missions, kids.
Frustration burned in me. I opened my mouth to argue, but Gojo interrupted. "Ah, but what about our dear Kaito here?" His tone was deceptively light, and for a second, I was back to being his goofy student, not a soldier reporting from a potential warzone. "Don't you think his performance warrants... a promotion?"
A flash of surprise, then shrewd calculation, masked the higher-ups' expressions. I was a pawn again, but this play, at least, might work in my favor. They debated, their voices a low, urgent hum. I caught fragments - "...potential… risk… control…" My future hung in the balance of their words.
At last, Baldy spoke. "Further evaluation will be required." Typical. They'd string me along, make me jump through their hoops, all while the real threat lurked in the shadows.
The meeting ended. Not with a bang, but with the rustling of papers and muttered orders. Gojo held us back as the higher-ups swept out, leaving an icy draft and a lingering sense of dread.
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