Life was, to put it bluntly, fucking fantastic for you. Two years had passed since the brutal, world-shaking battle against Sukuna—a fight that had left scars, both seen and unseen, but ultimately secured a fragile peace. The Jujutsu Higher-Ups, in their own twisted way of expressing gratitude (and maybe a hint of fear), had flooded your accounts with absurd amounts of money. No more bloodstained battlefields, no more last-minute exorcisms, no more cursed energy dictating every moment of your existence. Now, your days were spent lounging in a luxurious San Francisco penthouse, a stark contrast to the chaos you'd once called life.

Everything was perfect.

Another lazy afternoon found you sprawled across your oversized couch, bathed in the glow of an action movie playing on your state-of-the-art screen. The kind of mindless entertainment that required zero effort—just how you liked it. A cold beer rested in one hand, a half-empty bowl of popcorn within reach. This? This was peace.

Then, your phone buzzed.

Maki.

Her message was brief, almost too casual: "Where are you these days? Free to meet up?" Followed by a few other nonchalant questions.

Your brow furrowed slightly. You weren't exactly the type to exchange pleasantries. Not that you minded. Intrigued, you fired off an invitation to your place, half-expecting her to turn it down.

She didn't.

Something nagged at the back of your mind.

Why hadn't she mentioned Yuta?

Last you checked, they were inseparable—a duo forged in battle, bound by something deeper than words. Maki wasn't the sentimental type, but their relationship had been solid. So why now, after two years of near silence, was she reaching out alone?

You shrugged it off. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. Maki never did anything without a reason.

Two weeks drifted by. Two weeks of the same routine—waking up late, eating well, doing absolutely nothing. The life of a man who had earned his rest.

Then, a sharp knock shattered the quiet.

You groaned, half-expecting it to be a delivery. You pushed off the couch, making your way to the door with zero urgency.

You pulled it open.

Maki stood there.

Same sharp gaze, same air of quiet danger, even in casual clothes. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and beside her, a large suitcase—too large for a simple visit.

For a split second, you just stared. Then, the obvious question hit you.

Why the hell did she have luggage?

And more importantly—where was Yuta?

Before you could even ask, Maki stepped forward. Without breaking stride, she hoisted the suitcase and tossed it toward you like it weighed nothing. It hit the plush rug with a muted thud.

She walked past you, straight to the couch, sinking into it like she owned the place.

"Close the door," she said, voice steady, unwavering.

Then, as if the weight of her words was nothing more than a passing breeze, she added, "And bring that bag to our room."

Our room.

You stood frozen, suitcase in hand, a whirlwind of unanswered questions swirling in your head.

What the hell was going on?