He didn’t have a key anymore. He’d lost it somewhere in the chaos, along with his old backpack and his grandfather’s funeral photo. So he just knocked.
“So are you,” Gojo said, flicking his forehead. “We’ll clean it up. Together.”
He tried the handle. Unlocked.
Inside, the air was stale. The small kitchen table was still set for two. A half-empty cup of tea had grown a fuzzy kingdom of mold. The TV was off, but a thin layer of dust covered everything like a silent scream.
He hadn’t been here in months. Not since Shibuya. Not since Sukuna had turned this very city block into a slaughterhouse. The curse had been exorcised, the barriers rebuilt, the dead buried. But some stains, Yuji knew, never washed out. Home RESULT FOR- JUJUTSU
And Yuji, for the first time in a very long time, replied, “I’m home.”
Yuji’s throat closed up. He looked around the dusty, moldy, broken-down little apartment. And for the first time since Sukuna had ripped control away from him, since he’d watched Nanami die, since he’d heard Nobara’s scream—he felt a crack in the wall he’d built around his heart. He didn’t have a key anymore
His hands trembled.
“It’s a mess,” Yuji whispered.
Now, it felt like a cursed object. Every shadow held a memory. The corner where his grandfather’s oxygen tank used to sit. The scuff mark on the floor from Yuji’s wrestling practice shoes. The faint smell of miso soup, ghosting through the years.
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. “So are you,” Gojo said, flicking his forehead