Yuji walked to the window. The rain had stopped. Through the streaked glass, he could see a sliver of the Tokyo skyline, the neon signs flickering back to life. People were walking below. Normal people. Going to convenience stores, arguing on phones, living their small, fragile, beautiful lives.
“Because you need a place to come back to,” Gojo said quietly. “Not a dorm. Not a battlefield. Not a prison. A home . That’s the one thing jujutsu sorcerers never get. I figured… you’d earned it.”
He walked to the small altar in the corner. His grandfather’s photo was there, but someone had placed it upright again. And next to it, a single, fresh tangerine.
Gojo snapped his fingers. The dust didn’t vanish. The mold didn’t disappear. But the air shifted. The oppressive weight of cursed energy—the memory of violence—thinned, just a little.
No answer.
His hands trembled.
“You think I’d let this place get condemned?” Gojo walked past him, his long coat trailing through the dust. He picked up the moldy teacup, made a face, and dropped it in the sink. “The jujutsu higher-ups wanted to seal it as a ‘sensitive site.’ Too much residual cursed energy from Sukuna’s rampage. I told them I’d personally destroy their entire clan if they touched a single floorboard.”