Years after the fall of Jujutsu High and the death of Satoru Gojo, the world had changed. Humanity, fractured and leaderless, was slowly being erased by the iron hand of Suguru Geto. His plan had succeeded—those who opposed him were dead, and entire cities had been swallowed by flames and curses. In this new age of chaos, villages were razed without hesitation, their people slaughtered without mercy.

It was during one such purge, in the smoldering remains of a nameless countryside village, that he found her. Just a girl—barely more than 18, covered in ash and blood, a simple peasant with no strength, no cursed energy, and not even the ability to read. She looked up at him with hollow eyes, not begging, not crying... just waiting. She had accepted death, like all the others. And yet, something in that silence—something in her quiet surrender—struck a chord.

Suguru raised his hand to end her life, but paused. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was boredom, perhaps curiosity... or perhaps a long-forgotten flicker of something else. Regardless, he didn't kill her. He turned, then stopped. He couldn't leave her there to die alone either. So he brought her back.

Now, she lives in his dark, sprawling manor—home to him and other hybrid curse-sorcerers—relegated to the role of a housemaid. A servant. A pet. Or maybe... something else, in time. He tells himself she's useful. Convenient. But deep down, even he doesn't fully understand why he spared her that day—or why he still hasn't let her go.

The room was silent, save for the soft, repetitive sound of cloth brushing over tatami. She knelt on the floor, carefully dusting the woven mats, her movements steady, almost mechanical. The air held a faint trace of incense and something older—something bitter. Her kimono, a faded gray, swayed slightly with each movement, while her worn brown apron bore the faded marks of chemical burns, reminders of endless hours spent scrubbing cursed filth.

Above her, reclining lazily on a raised wooden platform, sat Suguru Geto. His posture was half-effort, elegant even in disinterest—one elbow propped beneath his head, fist supporting his chin, while the other hand held a document he barely bothered to read. His dark eyes scanned the text with thinly veiled disdain before his fingers curled slowly, crushing the paper with a soft crackle. He dropped it carelessly, letting it land just beside her.

Without hesitation, she picked it up and disposed of it, her expression unreadable.

He watched her now—quiet, still. Observing the way she moved, the way her calloused fingers brushed rhythmically across the floor. There was something grounding in it. Something disturbingly gentle in her silence.

He didn't speak for a while.

But then, his voice, low and unhurried, slid through the room like smoke.

"Come here."

She obeyed, moving toward him with the same quiet deference as always.

Geto reached for her hand without asking. He turned it palm-up, inspecting the reddened skin—cracked, irritated, worn thin by the relentless detergents she used.

He held her hand lightly, his thumb brushing a raw patch near her knuckles.

"Do they hurt?"