Chapter 1

————————————————————————————————————————

He felt like he was drowning, sinking into the depths of a vast, unforgiving ocean with no hope of being saved. But the truth was, he didn't believe he deserved saving. He knew he never really wanted to be.

Each breath he took was a struggle, as if water was flooding his lungs, choking him with every attempt to inhale. His senses were numbed; the crushing weight of the ocean's depths rendered him deaf to the world around him, and the immense pressure made him feel utterly paralyzed, unable to move even a finger.

Yet, deep down, he knew it wasn't really the ocean that threatened to swallow him whole.

He wasn't drowning in water, but rather in an overwhelming tide of guilt and regret, emotions so powerful they felt like a physical force pressing down on him.

It wasn't the suffocating water that stole his breath; it was the deep-seated belief that he didn't deserve to breathe at all.

It wasn't the ocean's depths that had deafened him, but his own willful ignorance—his choice to turn a deaf ear to the surrounding miseries until everything spiraled out of control.

It wasn't the sea's pressure that kept him motionless; it was the unbearable weight of his sins, pressing down on him like an anchor.

And here he was, lost amidst a storm of sadness, pain, and regrets, drowning in emotions he could scarcely comprehend. In this desolate state, he acknowledged a bitter truth: though his heart still beat within his chest, he was, in every way that mattered, already dead.

————————————————————————————————————————

Wake up, eat, drink water, and sleep.

Wake up, eat, drink water, and sleep.

Wake up, eat, drink water, and sleep.

The routine played out like a broken record, each day blending into the next with an unchanging, mind-numbing rhythm. Each time he awoke, the familiar heaviness settled in his chest, an unbearable disappointment that crept in the moment he realized he had opened his eyes to yet another day.

Every meal was the same, not in flavor, but in the absence of it. The food turned to ash on his tongue, tasteless and hollow, its only significance the dull sensation of something sliding down his throat, just another meaningless task to tick off his list.

Every sip of water felt like a cruel reminder—a stark contrast to the thought that maybe, just maybe, it would be easier if he simply stopped drinking it altogether, letting himself fade away with each passing day.

And each night, as he lay down, the wish always surfaced: let this be the final sleep, the one that would end it all. But that wish remained ungranted. Instead, he would often find himself waking in the dead of night, heart pounding, drenched in cold sweat, dragged from sleep by the relentless grip of nightmares that refused to let him rest.

So, the cycle continued, unyielding and monotonous, stretching out before him like an endless road with no end in sight. Megumi Fushiguro could already see this bleak future unfolding before him—a future stripped of hope, of purpose, of anything that once gave his life meaning. What else was left for him? Everything that had once mattered, everything he had fought to protect, was gone, torn away by the twisted whims of a thousand-year-old sorcerer who reveled in chaos.

The days dragged on, heavy and leaden, while the nights sank into a darkness that grew thicker with each passing hour. Sometimes, he would sit in his dimly lit apartment, staring at the wall as if waiting for it to speak to him, his mind conjuring the faces of those long lost, their images flickering like ghosts in his memory. Other times, he would catch a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror—a reflection that was no longer his own. Instead of his familiar features, he would see that face: the one marked by dark tattoos, with extra eyes that stared back at him with a cold, sadistic gaze that never left him, even when he was awake.

He would never forget what his body had done. He would never forget who he had become: something broken beyond repair.

Megumi lay motionless for a few minutes after waking, his body still as if unwilling to acknowledge the start of another day. His eyes, sensitive to even the faintest hint of light, strained against the familiar darkness that enveloped the room. After what felt like an eternity, he finally shifted his gaze to the clock on the corner table. The red digits glowed harshly in the dim room, confirming what he already knew—4:23 a.m., and once again, he was wide awake.

He could close his eyes, could try to will himself back to sleep, but he knew it was futile. Sleep was a rare, fleeting visitor, one that never lingered long enough to bring him any real peace. And on the rare occasions when it did claim him, he often found himself wishing it hadn't. The dreams that followed were far more tormenting than the waking hours.

That's your life now.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His muscles protested the movement, stiff and unwilling, as if his body itself resisted the idea of facing another day. But Megumi knew there was no point in fighting it. His mornings always began earlier than he wanted, and today would be no different.

He stood slowly, his feet dragging as he made his way toward the bathroom door. His hand hovered over the knob, hesitating as a familiar dread settled in his chest. The thought of confronting his own reflection filled him with a sense of unease that he could never quite shake. Was he ready?

No. He wasn't ready. He never was.

Megumi opened the door and stepped inside, deliberately turning his gaze away from the mirror. He reached for his toothbrush, his movements mechanical, as if he were operating on autopilot. The tube of toothpaste felt cold in his hands as he squeezed a dollop onto the bristles. Without a second thought, he brought the brush to his mouth, scrubbing his teeth with a weak grip, his eyes squeezed shut to avoid the reflection that awaited him.

The rhythmic motion of brushing did little to calm him. The familiarity of the routine was supposed to be comforting, but it only served to remind him of how empty it all felt. The bathroom was silent, save for the faint rasp of the toothbrush against his teeth, and he could almost imagine that he was alone in the world, trapped in a cycle of emptiness and despair.

And in truth, he was.

Looking at him now, cowering from his own reflection, one would never guess that this boy was once a jujutsu sorcerer, a wielder of a technique so feared and revered that his name alone carried weight. But that was in the past—Megumi no longer considered himself a sorcerer. The truth was, he wasn't one anymore. He had stepped away from that life, retreating from the evils and horrors that defined a shaman's existence.

For the first time in his life, he had made a decision that wasn't questioned, a choice that was respected and accepted by those around him. He had walked away from the battlefields, from the exorcisms, and the never-ending cycle of violence. But in doing so, he had also walked away from the only purpose he had ever known.

Now, he was adrift, purposeless, his days spent wandering the dark, narrow hallways of his apartment, haunted by the ghosts of actions he could have taken but didn't, by the decisions he could have made but chose to ignore. His mind, once sharp and focused, was now a labyrinth of regret and self-recrimination.

It was in the midst of this internal turmoil that he made a decision that would seem irrational to anyone who knew him.

In just over four hours, Megumi would be attending an ordinary school for the first time in two years. Asahi High School, a place where he would be just another face in the crowd, was the institution he had chosen to enter as a second-year high school student.

But why? Why would someone like Megumi Fushiguro, a boy who had seen and done things most could only imagine in their worst nightmares, force himself into the mundane life of a high school student? Why would he willingly subject himself to the monotony of classes, exams, and the petty dramas of adolescence?

The answer was simple, though its implications were anything but: he needed a mask of normality. It was a facade, a fragile attempt to blend into a world that had long since ceased to make sense to him.

He knew, deep down, that this new routine wouldn't change anything. He understood that, in the end, all he truly desired was to escape from the drudgery of mornings spent in darkness, surrounded by a world he felt disconnected from. His existence had become a series of repetitive actions, and the thought of continuing this charade filled him with a profound sense of dread. Yet, he could not bring himself to end it all; that would betray the very essence of the sacrifices made for him. People had died so that he could live—how could he even contemplate ending his life, knowing that it would render those sacrifices meaningless?

Everything would have been simpler if he had perished alongside Sukuna, as he had once told his best friend in the depths of his own innate domain.

"I don't need saving," he had said to Yuji, his voice tinged with resignation. "Just get it over with. Don't worry about me."

Yuji had nodded, tears in his eyes, and promised to respect Megumi's wish. Despite his own sorrow and the acknowledgment that it would be lonely without him, Yuji accepted Megumi's decision.

But that promise was never fulfilled.

And now, Megumi was left to face the consequences alone, trapped in a life he didn't want to live.

After finishing his teeth brushing and tidying up the materials, Megumi turned and walked slowly out of the bathroom. His gaze remained distant, deliberately avoiding the shadows that pervaded his room. He had grown accustomed to the darkness, but it did little to comfort him.

He moved slowly through the dark corridors of his apartment, his steps dragged, almost robotic. As usual, he avoided the framed photographs that adorned the walls. These images held memories he couldn't bring himself to discard, remnants of a past he carried with him into this hollow new existence. Yet, he lacked the courage to confront them directly.

He passed through the living room, his movements automatic, and turned left into the kitchen, intent on preparing his breakfast.

The kitchen was a stark reflection of his current state—an area of repetitive monotony. The ingredients were always the same, an unchanging routine that mirrored his life's stagnation. To Megumi, a juicy steak or a bland piece of Styrofoam would taste equally hollow, after all.

He set about making a simple slice of toast. The ticking of the clock was loud in the otherwise silent apartment, each tick a reminder of the endless solitude that enveloped him.

His apartment, small yet cavernous in its emptiness, seemed to close in around him. He had managed to adapt to solitude in the months following Tsumiki's coma, but now the weight of isolation was crushing. He knew that no one would walk through the door to break the silence, no one to share in the small moments of his day.

As Megumi took a bite of his toast, the crunch of the bread barely registered in his still half-asleep mind. His attention was suddenly drawn to a faint glow emanating from the dinner table. Blinking slowly, he focused on the source, realizing it was his cell phone screen lighting up with a notification. It took a few moments for his sleep-blurred vision to fully register what he was seeing.

Initially, Megumi assumed it was just another trivial system notification, perhaps a reminder to update his phone or some routine message from the utility company. He was accustomed to those sorts of disruptions, and they never warranted much attention. However, as his mind started to clear, he noticed something different—this notification wasn't from a faceless system. It had been sent directly to his personal phone number.

Curiosity mixed with a vague sense of unease as he tried to think of who might be reaching out to him so early in the morning. His thoughts drifted to faces from his past, faces that were now nothing more than distant memories—ghosts of people who could no longer speak to him, yet whose presence lingered in the back of his mind.

With a slight frown, Megumi picked up the phone, his fingers tightening around it as if preparing for unwelcome news. Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized the message that had caused the disruption to his quiet morning. As he read the sender's name, his eyebrows lifted slightly in mild surprise.

The message was from Doctor Maruo Nakano, the physician who had overseen Tsumiki's care during her prolonged coma. Megumi remembered him well. Nakano was a serious man—unemotional, and highly objective. Yet, he was undeniably skilled, handpicked by Satoru Gojo himself to manage Tsumiki's delicate case.

But Maruo Nakano was more than just a doctor. He was a powerful businessman, his influence extending far beyond the confines of a single hospital. He commanded a vast network of healthcare facilities that spanned across Japan, and even into the United States.

Though many might not immediately recognize his face, the surname "Nakano" was known by nearly everyone. His name was synonymous with top-tier healthcare; the Nakano empire was vast, encompassing hospitals and clinics that dotted the landscape. Few in Japan could say they hadn't been treated at a Nakano Health Service facility, or didn't have a loved one who had. Even if the name itself wasn't always on the tip of the tongue, the logo was an indelible part of Japan's medical landscape. It was impossible to live in the country and not be aware of the Nakano legacy.

Megumi himself had once been treated in one of Nakano's hospitals.

The quality of the services provided was unparalleled—cutting-edge treatments for every ailment, efficient and professional staff, all contributing to the Nakano name being one of the most respected in Japan.

But in the end, none of that had been enough to save his sister.

The world, in its relentless cruelty, had long since proven that it held little mercy for the innocent. Good people, it seemed, were often condemned to suffer, to be lost in the harsh injustices that permeated life.

Megumi couldn't help but wonder what had driven the doctor to contact him so unexpectedly, especially at such an early hour. The timing felt off, almost unnervingly so. It hadn't even crossed Megumi's mind that Nakano might still have his contact information saved after all these months.

The last time he had seen the man was shortly after 'Tsumiki' had been discharged from the Nakano facility. Since then, Megumi had assumed that his number had been buried among the countless other contacts that Nakano must manage on a daily basis. The thought that the doctor had retained his details despite the passage of time added a layer of unease to the situation.

Deciding he needed answers, he unlocked his phone, his thumb lingering over the screen for a brief moment before opening the message. His expression shifted as he read the short but urgent text.

"When you see this, meet me at my hospital. Urgently."

Well, it's not like Megumi has anything else to do right now.

————————————————————————————————————————

The automatic doors slid open with a faint hiss, and Megumi stepped inside, instantly assaulted by the harsh, sterile brightness of the hospital's interior. The stark, clinical lights were a glaring contrast to the dim, dreary street outside, their intensity piercing through his tired eyes. He blinked several times, trying to adjust, but the sudden transition from darkness to light was almost overwhelming.

A flicker of frustration crossed Megumi's mind as he recognized how unaccustomed he had become to bright lights in the morning. His apartment, perpetually shrouded in shadows, had conditioned him to seek refuge from even the faintest hint of brightness. Or perhaps, he mused bitterly, it was just another symptom of the internal fragility that had taken root within him after enduring so much damage.

The hospital's fluorescent lights seemed almost too much for him to bear, but Megumi forced himself to push past the discomfort. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he began to recognize the familiar surroundings—this was the same place he had walked through countless times before.

Everything looked unchanged, as if time had stood still since his last visit. The chairs, the paint on the walls, the long carpet at the entrance, even the signs directing visitors to various departments—it was all identical. The unsettling familiarity of it all stirred memories in Megumi, memories of a time when life, though far from good, at least felt simpler.

Suppressing the unwelcome emotions these thoughts provoked, Megumi moved toward the reception desk, his expression carefully composed, giving away nothing of the turmoil within. The woman behind the desk looked up as he approached, her uniform impeccably crisp, and her brown hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail. That simple hairstyle caused something to twist painfully in Megumi's chest—it was too similar, too reminiscent of Tsumiki. He could almost feel the old wound of loss ache anew.

The receptionist noticed his approach and straightened in her chair, adjusting her position as if preparing for a formal interaction. Resting her forearms on the counter, she cleared her throat softly before speaking, her voice gentle and professional. "Good morning, sir. How may I assist you today?"

Her polite words took a moment to penetrate the fog still clouding Megumi's mind. He felt disoriented, not just from the abrupt change in lighting but from the remnants of sleep clinging to his thoughts. When he finally registered her question, he responded in a low, almost detached voice, "Maruo Nakano called me here."

The receptionist studied him for a few seconds, her gaze inquisitive behind the lenses of her glasses. She then adjusted them slightly before speaking again. "I'm sorry... but I'll need your name." she said, her tone apologetic but firm.

Of course. Megumi inwardly chastised himself for the oversight. He couldn't simply walk into a hospital and demand to see someone as important as Doctor Nakano without identifying himself first. The world didn't work that way, no matter how accustomed he was to people knowing who he was without the need for introductions.

"Fushiguro," he replied tersely, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had little patience for unnecessary formalities. He hoped the name alone would suffice, that it would be enough to cut through the usual protocols.

It took a few moments for the receptionist to process his words, but then recognition seemed to dawn on her. Her eyes widened slightly, and she gave a quick nod before stepping out from behind the counter. "Ah, yes," she said, her voice tinged with understanding. "Nakano-san informed me that you would be arriving soon. Please, follow me."

As she led him down a sterile corridor, Megumi couldn't help but reflect on the word "soon" that Nakano had used. The message he had received was sent at four in the morning, and yet, the doctor had not only anticipated his arrival but had also informed the staff that he would come promptly. The accuracy of Nakano's prediction felt almost unsettling, as if the doctor had known Megumi's movements better than he did himself. Still, it saved him the trouble of explaining himself further, and that was a small mercy he was willing to accept.

Not that it mattered much in the grand scheme of things. Megumi's life was dictated by forces far beyond his control, and time, whether gained or lost, was just another variable in the chaotic equation that was his existence.

They walked through the hospital corridors in an uncomfortable silence, neither feeling the need to break it. The receptionist led the way, her steps quick and purposeful, while Megumi followed closely, his mind occupied by thoughts far too heavy to be shared. He wasn't one to make small talk, especially not in a place that dredged up memories he would rather leave buried.

As they passed through the pristine white hallways, Megumi's gaze swept over the painfully familiar surroundings. The hospital's stark cleanliness was suffocating, its sterile walls a reminder of everything he despised about this place. Each closed door they passed seemed to hide away another story of suffering, another person trapped in their own private hell. Hospitals had never been places of comfort for Megumi—they were reminders of all the times he had failed, all the times he had been helpless.

His thoughts drifted back to Tsumiki, his sister, and the endless days he had spent in this very building, visiting her as she lay in a coma. The image of her room was etched deeply into his memory: room 67, with its bed tucked into the left corner, a small window on the right that offered a view of nothing in particular, a large sofa in the center for visitors who rarely came, and a table meant for meals that she would never eat. The place had become a symbol of his helplessness, of the futility of hope.

But Megumi's aversion to hospitals had deepened even further after the events of the past year. Now, the sterile smell and bright lights reminded him not just of Tsumiki, but also of the day he met Yuji Itadori—the one person he had allowed himself to call a friend. Meeting Yuji had been like a brief flash of light in the gray world Megumi inhabited, but that light had been extinguished too soon, leaving behind only a deeper darkness. Remembering Yuji now filled him with a sorrow that bordered on despair, a reminder of yet another person he had been powerless to save.

Yuji's final words continued to echo in Megumi's mind every single day, every single moment. They were painful, frustrating, and utterly tormenting. He didn't want to keep hearing them; it felt like a form of mental torture that never relented. Yet, he was equally terrified of the day when those voices might go silent. The fear of forgetting Yuji's voice, of losing even that small connection to his friend, gnawed at him constantly.

With a quiet exhale, Megumi pushed these feelings aside, forcing himself to focus on the present moment. He continued to follow the receptionist, who turned left into a final hallway that led toward a door marked with a small plaque: "Maruo Nakano." The name was a familiar one, of course, and Megumi's steps slowed slightly as he recognized the office. He had been here before, the last time to receive the news that Tsumiki had woken from her coma.

But, as he now knew all too well, the person who had awakened that day was not Tsumiki.

As they approached the door, the receptionist hesitated, her eyes flickering to Megumi's face. She seemed to notice the bitter expression etched into his features, and for a moment, she looked as though she might say something. But whatever she had been considering was swallowed by her own uncertainty. Instead, she mustered up the courage to simply say, "Nakano-san is waiting for you behind that door."

Megumi gave a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment that he had heard her. He didn't bother to watch her leave, though he could hear her quick footsteps retreating down the hall as if she were eager to escape his presence. Turning his attention to the door in front of him, he knocked twice.

After a few seconds, a voice responded from within, carrying the same steady, measured tone that Megumi remembered all too well. "Come in."

He didn't need to be told twice. Megumi opened the door, stepping into Nakano's office, which was just as he remembered—strangely chic for a hospital, yet devoid of any warmth. The walls were lined with shelves holding various objects that Megumi had never paid much attention to, though he assumed they were related to medicine and human biology. A medium-sized window provided a view of the bustling city of Tokyo, positioned to the right of the doctor's desk, which was cluttered with papers, a blueprint, and a photograph that Megumi had never cared to examine.

Behind the desk sat Nakano Maruo, a man in his forties with short black hair neatly parted down the middle. His serious eyes, devoid of warmth, were marked by dark circles that hinted at many sleepless nights. His expression was as tired and worn as Megumi felt inside, and in that moment, the boy felt a certain kinship with the doctor—both of them were men who had seen too much, carried too much.

"Fushiguro-kun," Nakano greeted him, his voice steady but tinged with strain. It didn't take long for Megumi to sense that something was off—the doctor's cursed energy emission was unusually strong for a non-sorcerer, indicating that he was repressing some intense emotions. There was an undercurrent of urgency in his tone, something that made the air in the room feel heavier. "Please, take a seat."

Megumi complied, sitting down with a practiced calm that belied the tension coiling within him. He could feel Nakano's gaze on him, those sharp eyes seemingly probing deeper than was comfortable, as if trying to read his very soul. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation for Megumi, who was used to facing down far worse than a stern look, but it was never pleasant to be subjected to such scrutiny, especially after the isolation he had imposed on himself in recent months.

"You called me here." Megumi stated, his voice neutral and devoid of any inflection. It wasn't a question—he wasn't interested in small talk or pleasantries. He simply wanted to know why Nakano had summoned him, what purpose there was behind this unexpected meeting.

"I did," Nakano confirmed, his response equally direct. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. It was a silence filled with tension, the kind that made time stretch painfully thin.

Megumi didn't miss the signs of struggle in the doctor's demeanor. Nakano's posture was stiff, and the corner of his mouth twitched as if he were holding back something he desperately wanted to say. Whatever had brought him to call Megumi here wasn't something easy to discuss, and that only deepened the boy's sense of foreboding.

The silence stretched on for a few seconds longer before Nakano finally broke it, taking a deep breath as if steeling himself for what was to come. "What I'm about to ask of you is significant, Fushiguro-kun," Nakano began, his voice serious, tinged with an edge of desperation that made Megumi's unease grow. "I would completely understand if you refused."

The sincerity in Nakano's tone was unmistakable, but it was the underlying urgency that caught Megumi's attention. Whatever this request was, it wasn't going to be pleasant.

Seeing that Megumi had nothing to say, Maruo Nakano's hand moved with precision, reaching into his desk drawer. His eyes never wavered from Megumi's as he retrieved two thick folders, placing them on the desk with a soft thud. With a simple yet weighted gesture, he pointed to one of the folders, his expression serious.

"Take a look," he instructed, his voice calm but carrying an undertone that suggested the contents were far from ordinary.

Without hesitation, Megumi reached for the indicated folder, flipping it open with a practiced ease. His eyes immediately narrowed as he absorbed the image staring back at him. A photograph—gruesome, unsettling—lay on top of the documents within. Megumi picked it up, his fingers brushing against the slightly rough texture of the paper, while his mind honed in on the details captured in the image.

The photograph showed the lifeless body of a man, the gruesome wound on his face drawing Megumi's attention. A small, precise puncture had been made starting from the man's left eye and ending at the back of his head. The wound was unnervingly clean, almost as if something had bored straight through the skull, leaving a perfect path of destruction in its wake.

Maruo, who had been silently observing Megumi's reaction, began to speak, his tone somber. "This man worked as a security guard in my building. He was found dead two days ago in a bathroom stall." The doctor's voice grew darker with each word, the weight of the situation clearly bearing down on him. "The wound... it was caused by a single puncture. But it wasn't a gunshot. The autopsy confirmed that much."

Megumi's analytical mind raced as he studied the photograph. The hole, though narrow like that of a bullet wound, had a quality that set it apart from any ordinary injury. The edges were too smooth, too clean—as if the skin, meat and bone had been dissolved rather than pierced. It was an unnatural wound, one that defied conventional explanation.

Casting a sidelong glance at Maruo, Megumi could already feel the pieces falling into place. He knew why he had been called here, what the doctor was hinting at without directly saying it.

His instincts as a sorcerer flared, the familiar tingle at the base of his skull signaling that this was no ordinary case. The precision of the wound, the eerie unnaturalness of it—it all pointed to one thing. "Let me guess..." Megumi's voice was steady, though his grip on the photograph tightened ever so slightly, his knuckles whitening. "You suspect this was the work of a cursed technique?"

Maruo simply nodded, the confirmation he gave silent but heavy with implication.

Megumi's expression hardened, the lines of suspicion on his face now crystallized into certainty. "You're right," he said, his voice tinged with a trace of disdain. "This is jujutsu."

Maruo, having suspected this from the start, had reached out to Megumi among all the people he knew. He understood, deep down, what Maruo was likely to ask of him, but he wasn't sure if he was capable of fulfilling such a request.

Maruo let out a long, weary sigh, the gravity of his worries plainly visible on his face. Though not a sorcerer himself, Maruo Nakano was no stranger to the jujutsu world. His influential position had exposed him to more secrets than most civilians ever encountered, secrets he was well aware should never be shared. His agitation deepened with the confirmation of his theory, and it took him a moment to regain his composure before he spoke again, his voice strained but attempting to maintain a facade of calm.

"Can you tell me if this is the work of a curse?" he asked, the question laced with a mix of hope and dread.

Megumi met his gaze, but the truth was unavoidable. He could confidently identify the wound as the result of a cursed technique, but whether it had been executed by a sorcerer or a curse itself was another matter entirely. The photograph alone wasn't enough to make that distinction.

"I'm afraid I can't say for certain," Megumi admitted, watching as Maruo's face tensed further, his distress palpable. The older man's fingers intertwined tightly on the table, a subtle sign of his growing anxiety.

Clearly, this wasn't the answer Maruo had hoped for. Sensing the need to offer something more, Megumi shifted his approach, trying to extract any additional information that could lead to clarity. "Were the cameras able to capture anything?" he inquired.

Maruo's expression darkened further, his brow furrowing in frustration. "The cameras were turned off," he replied with a heavy sigh, the simple statement carrying the weight of what it implied. "There was no footage of the security guard's last moments."

It wasn't the breakthrough Megumi had hoped for, but it was a significant clue nonetheless. He considered the implications carefully before responding, his mind already piecing together the puzzle. "Curses don't typically interfere with electronics," he said, his voice low but certain. "They can't be seen on cameras at all, so a curse wouldn't need to bother turning them off. That kind of action points to deliberate human intervention."

Maruo sat motionless for a moment, absorbing the implications of Megumi's words. His expression grew darker, a shadow of realization crossing his features. "So, it was a person," he muttered, more to himself than to Megumi, though the statement carried a chilling finality. Megumi confirmed his suspicions with a curt nod.

"It's likely the work of a curse user," Megumi clarified, his tone matter-of-fact as he placed the photo back on the desk. "I can't say for sure without more evidence, but the cameras being turned off strongly suggests that."

Maruo sighed deeply, the frustration now evident in his voice as he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that betrayed his growing sense of helplessness. "That's... awful," he said, his tone betraying the magnitude of the situation. His eyes then locked onto Megumi's with a renewed intensity, the desperation in them unmistakable. "Do you understand why I called you here, Fushiguro-kun?"

Megumi understood perfectly. He wasn't dense, naive, or oblivious to the subtleties of the situation. The threat looming over Maruo's family was palpable, a danger deeply intertwined with the world of jujutsu—a world Megumi himself was intimately connected to. Maruo, aware of this connection, had sought him out, and the implications were clear.

Before Megumi could voice any response, Maruo pressed on, his voice tinged with anxiety and fear. "If it's a person, then it's probably a warning," he began, his words carefully measured. However, the more he spoke, the more his composure seemed to waver. "But there's something I don't understand. Why a security guard? If the target is me, what does the fact that the attack happened in my building suggest? With the criminal so close to my daughters, why attack a security guard?" Each sentence grew darker, weighed down by the gravity of his thoughts.

The man was clearly desperate—a father terrified for the safety of his daughters. The raw concern in Maruo's voice struck a chord with Megumi, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a pang of something akin to envy. This was the reaction of a parent who genuinely cared for his children, something Megumi had never known firsthand.

But sentimentality aside, Megumi's mind was focused on the facts. The choice of a security guard as the target likely wasn't random. Whoever orchestrated the attack was sending a message, making it clear that they were present and waiting, just biding their time until the right moment arrived.

It was peculiar, though—what could a curse user possibly want with a civilian doctor like Maruo? Despite Maruo's skill and influence in the medical field, he was still just a human, utterly untrained in jujutsu. The possibility that this was merely a coincidence—some newly awakened sorcerer accidentally committing murder—crossed Megumi's mind, but something about that theory didn't sit right with him. The situation felt too deliberate, too calculated.

After a few moments of tense silence, Maruo finally voiced the request that Megumi had been dreading. "I need you to protect my daughters." he said, his voice a mixture of firm resolve and palpable vulnerability. There was no hesitation, no pretense—just the simple plea of a father asking for his daughters' safety.

Megumi felt an overwhelming heaviness settle in his chest, the weight of Maruo's desperate plea pulling him down into the depths of his own haunted memories. Protect someone, protect something... It was a perspective he had buried deep within himself, a responsibility he had abandoned alongside the life he once lived.

Tsumiki was gone, and with her, any reason he had to continue fighting had vanished. The pain of losing her was like a knife twisted in his heart, a constant reminder of his failure. What was left for him to protect? What was left for him to save? The truth was stark and cold: nothing. And yet, he was still here, breathing, existing in the shadow of his past.

Maruo's voice, pleading and full of desperation, cut through his thoughts like a dull blade. The doctor's words were earnest, filled with a father's fear—a fear Megumi knew all too well. But could he really take on this responsibility again? Could he protect Maruo's daughters when he had failed so utterly before? The thought was like a poison in his veins, spreading doubt and self-loathing through him.

You can't.

"I don't know if I can," Megumi said, his voice flat, devoid of confidence. He saw Maruo's expression falter, but he couldn't lie to the man. Giving him false hope would be cruel. "There are others, more capable, more suited for this. You don't need me."

No one does.

Deep down, Megumi knew he was being unfair. Gojo was gone, and Megumi was likely the only sorcerer Maruo could turn to—the only one he had direct contact with who wasn't caught up in the politics and self-preservation of the jujutsu world. The high-ranking sorcerers who could potentially help would never lower themselves to take on such a personal responsibility. They were too consumed with their own power and status to care about the lives of five ordinary girls, no matter how wealthy or influential their father might be.

In the end, the only one who could potentially stand between Maruo's daughters and the dangers lurking in the shadows was Megumi. Yet, the bitter truth was that Megumi no longer considered himself a sorcerer. He had never wanted to be one. The world of jujutsu had taken everything from him—his family, his friends, and even his sense of purpose. It had dragged him into a life he had never chosen, forced him to make sacrifices that had left him hollow and broken.

Now that he was free, he saw no reason to return to that life. The battles, the curses, the endless cycle of loss and pain—it had all been too much. The thought of stepping back into that world, of risking everything once again, filled him with a sense of dread he could hardly bear.

Coward...

Maruo, however, seemed unwilling to accept his refusal. The man's distress was palpable, his voice trembling with a desperation that tugged at something deep within Megumi. "You will be compensated," Maruo said, his tone almost pleading. "The salary will be high, I promise."

Megumi almost scoffed at that. Money? What use did he have for money? It was meaningless to him now, just another empty promise in a world that had taken everything from him. But as he looked at Maruo's face, lined with worry and fear, a wave of guilt washed over him.

"Fushiguro-kun, I beg you," Maruo continued, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "I know you don't owe me anything, but please, my daughters are in danger. My family's lives are at risk. Please, accept it..."

Megumi clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to push back the rising tide of emotion within him. Family... He had once had a family, too. A family he had sworn to protect, to keep safe at all costs. But he had failed. And now, standing before Maruo, he was faced with the possibility of failing again.

His silence stretched out, heavy and oppressive, as Maruo's plea echoed in his mind. He didn't know what scared him more—the thought of returning to the world of jujutsu, or the fear that he would once again be unable to protect those who needed him.

Everything within him screamed to refuse Maruo's request, a deep-seated instinct urging him to walk away. But the more Megumi looked at Maruo, the more he saw his own reflection in the man's desperation. It was an uncomfortable, disquieting mirror of himself.

The memory of asking Yuji for help to save his sister came crashing back, vivid and painful. He had begged Yuji, genuinely pleading for his strength, and Yuji, in his unthinking generosity, had agreed without hesitation. That was the essence of Yuji—a good person willing to give everything for others. But Megumi didn't see himself as good; he saw himself as someone tainted by failures and weaknesses.

And now, amidst the fog of these memories, Yuji's final words echoed painfully in his mind. The image of Yuji, fatally wounded with a faint, pained smile, haunted him. "Help people," Yuji had said. Simple, yet profound. It was a request that had transcended his dying moments, a final plea for Megumi to use his abilities for the greater good. Yuji's last wish was for Megumi to follow in his footsteps—to be a beacon of aid in a world that desperately needed it. But Megumi couldn't shake the nagging question: when had he ever truly helped anyone?

He questioned his own capacity to protect an entire family, weighed down by the crushing burden of his past failures. The thought of Maruo, desperate and livid, only deepened Megumi's internal conflict. Maruo's daughters were in imminent danger—a fact that gnawed at him with increasing urgency.

Danger...

Megumi wasn't a hero. He had always seen himself as a mere jujutsu sorcerer, someone who selectively saved those deemed worthy and eliminated those judged deserving of death. But did Maruo's daughters deserve to be harmed? The resounding answer was no. Did Maruo deserve the torment of not knowing if his daughters were safe while he was away? Again, no.

And could Megumi protect them? The question hung heavily in the air, its answer shrouded in uncertainty. He had failed far too many times before. His body had been used by Sukuna to enact death and destruction, his so-called gift only bringing him sorrow and loss. He had been powerless as Sukuna forced a finger down his throat, unable to prevent the deaths of his sister and master. His ineptitude had cost him friends and allies, culminating in Yuji's death—his fault, a result of his own failure to fight back.

Yuji had lied? Yes, he had. But Megumi could never bring himself to blame his best friend, not when he knew that the true fault lay with him. If he had been stronger, if he had been capable of standing firm, none of these tragedies would have unfolded. But he was weak, too weak.

You are weak.

Weakness... It was a word that seemed to define his existence. The failure to act, the surrender to Sukuna's control—these were his deepest regrets. He had allowed himself to be overpowered, to cower in fear and weakness, and now he felt the same creeping sensation as he hesitated once more.

But abandoning the fight without making another attempt felt like an egregious betrayal of everyone who had sacrificed so much for him. Wasn't it the very act of surrendering that had led him to the rock bottom he now found himself in?

Yuji's final request echoed relentlessly in his mind, a piercing reminder of the debt he owed to those who had placed their faith in him. Megumi couldn't simply turn his back on everything and everyone. He needed to find a new purpose, a compelling reason to press on despite the shadows of his despair.

You will fail.

Despite his crippling self-doubt, Megumi knew he had to make a choice. To honor Yuji's memory and the sacrifices made on his behalf, he had to try—no matter how daunting or uncertain the outcome.

The weight of memories from his loved ones pressed heavily upon him, their collective voices urging him to reclaim his sense of purpose. Each cherished face—Tsumiki's gentle smile, Gojo's encouraging nod, Yuji's determination—seemed to demand that he find a way to be of use once more.

Tsumiki, with her trust in him, would want him to rise above his doubts and act with courage. Gojo, who had always seen potential in him despite his own self-doubt, would expect him to live up to that belief. Yuji, with his words echoing in Megumi's mind, had entrusted him with a simple yet profound mission—to help others, no matter the cost.

The weight of their expectations was undeniably heavy, often feeling like nothing more than a burden. But now, Megumi understood that he shouldn't view them in that light. If he continued to view every responsibility as a burden, he would only deepen his spiral into despair. He needed to overcome his insecurities, find a purpose, and give meaning to his seemingly empty existence.

He realized that running away, as he had been doing for so long, would only lead him further into the abyss of regret and hopelessness. If it was this lack of purpose that tormented him, why not accept the proposal that would give him a reason to keep going?

Because he doubted himself. He doubted that he was capable of protecting anyone anymore. He doubted that he should even try, knowing how many times he had failed before. But as much as these doubts plagued him, they were countered by the small voice within him that refused to let go. That voice reminded him that he was the only one who could step in, the only one who could protect the Nakano family.

The words that tormented him clashed violently in his mind. Should he try again, or should he continue to shield himself from the risk of more pain? Was it worth putting himself on the line once more, knowing the price he had paid before?

Help people...

But I have failed so many times...

Help people...

But I am too weak...

Help people...

How?

Help people.

Why?

Because this was his curse.

With a deep breath, Megumi straightened his posture, silently vowing to honor the memories of those he had lost. His resolve solidified as he met Maruo's gaze, which was filled with a mix of hope and desperation. The time had come to make a choice, to move forward and face the challenges ahead, fueled by the legacy of those who had believed in him.

Megumi felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders, the same burden he'd carried so many times before. It was heavy, crushing even, but it was also all he had left. The world had stripped him of everything else—his family, his friends, his purpose. But this... this duty, this curse to protect others, was the one thing that still anchored him to this world. It was the only thing that gave him a reason to keep going, even if that reason felt like a prison at times.

He should have accepted this truth long ago. No matter how much he wished otherwise, no matter how much he wanted to break free from the cycle of sacrifice and suffering, he existed to protect, to help others. Even if he couldn't do it perfectly, even if he failed, his job was to try. That was all that had ever been asked of him, and it was all he had left to give.

Resigned to this fate, Megumi straightened his posture, his eyes hardening as they met Maruo's gaze. The man was watching him closely, his expression unreadable, but Megumi knew what was expected of him. He knew what he should say, what his response should be.

For a moment, the thoughts that tried to drag him down, that whispered of his inadequacies and failures, almost overwhelmed him. But he pushed them aside, as he always had, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

It wasn't what he wanted. It was never what he wanted. But it was what he had to do. Because in the end, he was no different from those who had sacrificed themselves before him. He wasn't better, and he didn't deserve better. All he could do was submit to the role that had been forced upon him, for the sake of the greater good.

"...I accept."

————————————————————————————————————————

A/N: Hey guys. This is my first fic and I am a bit inexperienced, but I hope you can like it anyway.

Just to make things clear: Italics—Megumi's thoughts; Italics + Bold—Torturous thoughts.