Chapter Text
“You’re actually enjoying this,” Sukuna spat, voice low and dangerous, his chest heaving. “You’re smiling, even now.”
It was true. Even bloodied, bruised, and pushed to his limits, Satoru Gojo had fought with a kind of unshakable glee that made Sukuna’s skin crawl. That spark in his eyes—genuine, maddening delight—wasn’t arrogance. It was joy.
And that hug—that hug—the bastard had pulled him into during the height of their battle, laughing like a man possessed, like they were old friends dancing instead of enemies trying to kill each other… Sukuna had frozen, stunned, more from the sheer audacity than the physical blow that came after. It wasn’t just disrespect—it was something infuriating.
It had shaken him. Bruised something deeper than flesh. Ego. Pride. Whatever dark core had kept him warm through centuries of bloodshed—Gojo had touched it, and left a mark.
He hadn’t wanted to admit it—not when he’d watched the smug sorcerer prance through the battlefield like he owned it, not when he’d been imprisoned inside that brat Yuuji and forced to listen to Gojo’s endless boasting—but now, facing him fully, flesh to flesh and fury to fury… Sukuna knew.
Gojo was strong. Truly strong.
This fight—this brutal, beautiful clash—was the greatest he’d ever had. And no matter what came next, Sukuna would never forget it.
He would never forget Gojo Satoru. The magnificent, insufferable, radiant fool.
Sukuna smirked, lips twitching in sadistic triumph. His gamble had paid off. Gojo had grown reckless, slipping after the relentless assault from Sukuna himself, Mahoraga, and Agito. The strongest sorcerer, overwhelmed at last.
Victory tasted sweet—sharp and metallic like the blood on his tongue.
This was it. This was the moment Sukuna would carve his name into history by ending the one man who dared call himself the strongest.
He had once scoffed at Gojo's arrogance. Trapped within that brat Yuuji’s body, Sukuna had watched with loathing as the smug bastard of a sorcerer boasted his superiority. “I’d win in a fight against Sukuna.” The audacity.
Sukuna had seethed through every moment of confinement, waiting. And now, here he was, towering above that same sorcerer, beaten and bruised, ripe for the kill.
He raised his arm, energy crackling around it like a storm barely restrained.
“Ultimate strength and the solitude it brings,” he hissed, eyes alight with fury. “I’m the one who will teach you about love.”
Gojo needed to understand—caring for others, protecting them, cherishing them—it was a farce. A weakness. In the end, you only have yourself. The world doesn’t reward love. It punishes it.
Sukuna’s cursed energy surged, ready to slice that white-haired thorn from existence—
And then—nothing.
He froze.
Not in hesitation. Not in fear. Literally.
His body locked in place mid-strike, as if the very air had crystallized around him. He couldn't move. Couldn’t speak. Could only flick his eyes from side to side, panic worming into his chest.
And across from him, Gojo stood just as still, eyes wide, his expression shifting from pain to confusion.
Did Gojo do this? Sukuna tried to snarl, to summon his power, but nothing responded.
Then—
FLASH.
A blinding white light exploded around them, swallowing the battlefield whole.
And then came the fall.
Darkness engulfed Sukuna as gravity vanished beneath him. He plummeted through the void, his scream swallowed by silence, fury and fear spinning in his gut.
He was falling.
Falling.
Falling...
Sukuna woke with a jolt, face mashed against a cold, unyielding surface. Linoleum. Cheap, sterile, offensive. Every inch of his body screamed in protest as he shifted—but then he froze.
He was lying half on top of someone.
Groaning, he pushed himself up with slow, painful movements, muscles aching like they’d been run through a shredder. As he leaned back, vision swimming, he caught sight of the silver-white hair beneath him.
Gojo.
Satoru Gojo, unconscious and sprawled beneath him.
Sukuna scrambled backward with a snarl, sliding across the floor like it had bitten him. He stared wildly around, chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths.
The room wasn’t one he recognized—certainly no battlefield.
They were inside a sleek, enclosed space. Glass walls surrounded them on all sides, revealing a sweeping view of a still-sleeping city wrapped in morning mist. The sky outside was just beginning to lighten with the approach of dawn, but a torrential downpour of rain and lighting stopped the light from casting the skyline in pale orange and steel-blue. Smooth, metallic panels lined the walls, and signs of modern construction surrounded them. Informational displays. Security cameras. A sleek elevator shaft nearby.
They were at the top of something.
No. Not just something. A glance toward the plaque by the nearest window confirmed it.
102nd Floor – Empire State Building Observation Deck
Sukuna rose shakily to his feet, dizziness swaying the world beneath him. The silence was eerie—no curses, no echoes of battle, just the quiet hum of electronics and the low wind pressing against the windows.
He looked back down at Gojo. Still unconscious. His breathing was steady, if shallow, and his face was unmarred—no blood, no gaping wounds, no signs of the brutal battle they had just fought.
What the hell...?
A voice rang out behind him.
“Excuse me? Sir?” a woman said, tentative but firm. “How did you get up here?”
Sukuna turned sharply, eyes wild. A woman stood by the elevator in a deep maroon uniform—clearly a building employee. Her brow furrowed with confusion.
“Who are you?!” he snapped. His voice echoed, louder than it needed to be. “Where are we? Are you a sorcerer?! Some kind of witch?!”
The woman blinked. “This floor’s closed. It’s six in the morning. How did you even—”
“Silence!” Sukuna roared, pointing a finger at her like it was a blade. “You dare speak to a god without kneeling? Bow to me, wench!”
There was a long pause. The woman stared at him with the kind of deadpan exhaustion reserved for New Yorkers who’ve seen far too much.
“…Why is there a man on the floor?” she asked flatly.
Sukuna turned to Gojo again, teeth grinding. Something was wrong. Gojo looked exactly as he had during their fight—same clothes, same hair, same smug face—even while unconscious.
But no scars. No blood.
Sukuna looked down at himself and his breath hitched.
He was dressed exactly as he had been during the battle. But his body—he recognized it immediately. It wasn’t Megumi’s. It wasn’t some cursed vessel. It was his.
His original body. Or something close to it.
Tall. Powerful. Human. Normal eyes. Normal arms. No cursed marks. No monstrous features. Just him.
The reflection in the glass confirmed it, and fear began to crawl up his spine.
What is going on?
“Sir?” the woman pressed, less amused now. “I’m going to have to ask you to explain—”
“Watch your tongue,” Sukuna hissed, half-panicked, half-enraged. He slashed his hand in the air in a cleaving motion, expecting power to burst forth and tear the floor in two.
Nothing happened.
Not even a flicker of cursed energy.
The woman sighed, completely unimpressed, and pressed a button on her earpiece. “Yeah, I’ve got two inebriated men up here,” she muttered. “No idea how they even got through security.”
Sukuna’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. His cursed energy was gone. Gone.
His gaze darkened as it fell once again on Gojo’s unconscious body.
“You did this,” he growled.
He crouched down and seized Gojo by the collar, lifting him slightly. “Wake up!” he snarled.
Gojo made a sound—barely more than a groan, incoherent and dazed. His head lolled to the side like a rag doll, unresponsive.
Sukuna shook him harder. “I said wake up! Undo this!” he screamed, fury and fear coiling tightly in his chest.
But Gojo only muttered something unintelligible under his breath, eyes still closed.
“Sir?”
Sukuna looked up sharply, still crouched in front of Gojo’s unconscious body. Two men now stood over him, broad-shouldered and clad in dark navy paramedic uniforms. Their faces were weary, already bracing for nonsense. One of them crouched slightly, the other kept a wary distance.
“You’ve had anything to drink in the last 24 hours?” the first asked, voice calm but firm.
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You dare address a god with such insolence?”
The paramedics exchanged a glance—the kind of long-suffering look of men who’d had their fill of 6 a.m. rooftop emergencies.
“…Right,” said the second. “Any drugs in the last 24 to 48 hours? Prescription or otherwise?”
That did it.
Sukuna shot to his feet, shoulders squared and eyes blazing. “Drugs?! DRUGS?! You impudent worms think I’ve dulled my senses with mortal poisons? I AM RYOMEN SUKUNA! THE GOD OF CURSES! SHOW ME YOUR RESPECT!”
One of the paramedics held up a hand, palm out like he was talking to a particularly unstable raccoon. “Okay, okay. Got it. Big god energy. Totally hear you. What about your friend here?”
Sukuna jabbed a finger at Gojo without even looking. “That,” he snarled, “is not my friend. That is a cockroach in a blindfold who’s ruined my entire existence!”
The paramedics blinked.
Sukuna took a step forward, teeth bared. “You dare stand above me?! I will flay your bones and grind your souls to ash! Kneel, kneel, before I send your pathetic consciousnesses screaming into the void!”
The first paramedic sighed, already reaching behind his back. “If you don’t calm down, we’re going to have to restrain you. You’re scaring people.”
“No one restrains me!” Sukuna roared, voice echoing off the glass walls. “I bow to NO ONE! I am power incarnate! I am—”
There was a blur of motion.
An buzzing noise.
And then—
Pain. A sharp electrocution in his shoulder, sharp and searing.
He stumbled backward, blinking rapidly. The room spun like a carousel on fire. The paramedics’ voices faded into a buzzing hum.
“You’ll thank us later,” one of them muttered as Sukuna’s legs gave out beneath him.
The last thing he saw was the ceiling lights blurring into stars as the world tilted sideways, then vanished.
Black.
Sukuna stirred, eyelids fluttering against the sterile white light overhead. The air smelled of antiseptic and plastic. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeped in an annoying, repetitive rhythm that burrowed into his skull like a curse.
His head pounded.
His limbs felt heavy.
And he was… lying down?
He blinked hard, the ceiling coming into focus. The world spun slightly to the left.
What… what is this place?
The sound of a chair scraping against tile made him jerk his head—too fast. The motion made his stomach twist.
A stranger leaned over him—a man in a white coat, face soft and smiling like he was greeting a lost puppy.
“Hey there,” the doctor said cheerfully. “Can you tell me your name?”
Sukuna scowled. “Ryomen Sukuna.”
The doctor didn’t even blink. Just nodded and started scribbling something on a clipboard.
“Okay. Sukuna. Have you had anything to drink recently? Alcohol? Or taken any drugs? Medications of any kind?”
Sukuna’s nose flared in disgust. “No! I am the god of curses! My body is a vessel of wrath and might—I do not taint it with your mortal intoxicants! I draw power from fear, from death, from the blood of lesser men!”
The doctor didn’t look up. Just nodded again, calmly writing.
“And why do you think you’re a god, Sukuna?”
Sukuna bared his teeth. “Because I am. I reigned in the Heian era, slaughtered armies with a single thought. I am eternal! The strongest to ever live!”
“Mhm. Right. And how old are you?”
“I have lived over a thousand years,” Sukuna snapped. “I clawed my way to divinity with blood and bone. I am legend made flesh! I am what your ancestors feared in the dark!”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully, lips pursed.
“And have you always had these… feelings of grandeur?”
Sukuna blinked. “They’re not feelings, you mewling fool! I am a god because I chose to be. I carved my name into history with my own hands!”
“Right, okay,” the doctor murmured, jotting something else down. “And have you ever been placed in a psychiatric facility before?”
Sukuna’s brow furrowed. “A what?”
The rage inside him simmered like magma beneath the surface.
He turned his head, trying to make sense of the blinking machine to his right. “What is this thing?” he snapped.
“That’s just a heart monitor,” the doctor said soothingly. “We’re keeping an eye on your vitals. Took a bit of blood to run some tests—standard protocol.”
Blood?
Sukuna’s gaze snapped downward. His right arm was bandaged neatly, a clear plastic line snaking from it to a bag suspended beside the bed.
They’d taken his blood.
They’d taken his blood.
His vision blurred with red.
“You DARE extract my blood?! You DARE monitor MY lungs, MY heart?!” he bellowed.
The monitor beeped faster. Alarms began to go off. The doctor stepped back quickly, hand slamming a large red button on the wall.
“Patient four is escalating—requesting restraint, now!”
Sukuna roared, punching the monitor with all his strength. The machine cracked and sparked, shorting out in a hiss of static.
Within seconds, the door burst open. Two large male nurses stormed in and descended on him.
“UNHAND ME!” Sukuna bellowed, thrashing violently. “You think you can restrain me?! I will RIP YOUR—!”
A sharp jab.
A needle in his IV line.
A burning sensation in his veins.
His rage dulled in an instant, thoughts scattering like dust in a storm.
He slumped back against the pillow, the ceiling swimming above him.
The last thing he saw was the doctor’s calm face reappearing in his fading vision.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor said gently. “You’re safe now.”
And once again—
Black.
For the third time, Ryomen Sukuna awoke to a world that was not his.
His head throbbed like it had been smashed through a concrete wall. His mouth was dry, and nausea curled in his stomach like a pit viper coiled to strike. He groaned, sitting up slowly, vision blurring before it righted itself.
And then he saw him.
That infuriating mess of a man—Satoru Gojo—slumped in a chair pulled up beside his hospital bed, head flat on the bed and pointed away, snow-white hair falling messily. He was fast asleep, arms used as his pillow, his long legs kicked out lazily in front of him like he had not just dragged them both into some cursed technique hellscape.
Sukuna's rage was instant and pure. He raised his hand to smack the back of Gojo’s smug head—
Clink.
He froze.
His arm was restrained.
He looked down.
A handcuff.
One wrist, bound to the bedframe.
"What the hell is this?" Sukuna hissed, yanking his arm. The metal clattered against the rail.
Gojo startled awake immediately, his body tensing, head snapping toward the sound. His eyes met Sukuna’s—and though he tried to cover it, there was a brief flicker of fear behind those bright blue eyes.
They stared at each other, unblinking.
Sukuna snarled first, teeth bared. “What kind of technique is this? What have you done? You remove my power—strip me of everything—and then chain me like a beast?”
Gojo blinked slowly, rubbed his eyes, and sat up straighter. “Me? You think I did this?” he said, voice still raspy with sleep. “I thought you did this! One minute I’m fighting for my life and the next, I’m taking a nap in a hospital built like a high-end prison.”
Sukuna’s glare faltered, confusion flickering across his face. “You… didn’t do this?”
Gojo frowned. “No. Did you?”
“…No.” Sukuna’s answer came slower this time, the word tasting bitter.
Gojo leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and asked, “Do you have your cursed energy?”
Sukuna didn’t answer immediately.
But then he shook his head once, stiffly.
Gojo exhaled through his nose and tapped his fingers on the metal banister of the bed. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Sukuna yanked the handcuff again, growling. “Then unbind me.”
“Not my doing,” Gojo replied, gesturing with a lazy shrug. “Apparently, you were trying to throw hands with every single nurse and doctor in the building. Kinda earned yourself a little time out, big guy.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Release me.”
Gojo tilted his head. “Look, I’d love to, but I’m trying not to get us both lobotomized, alright? You’re acting like a maniac, and I’m just now getting my head together. You want out? Maybe try not threatening to flay the entire hospital next time.”
“Then what do you propose?” Sukuna hissed. “I am not staying chained like some beast in a cage.”
Gojo sighed, stood up, and stretched lazily—arms above his head, back arching like he was just waking up from a particularly cozy nap and not in the middle of an existential nightmare.
“We’ve got no cursed energy. No powers. No idea where we are. That means we play it smart. Calm. Blend in until we figure this out.”
He looked down at Sukuna, for once not smiling.
“I’m serious, Sukuna. Calm the fuck down.”
Sukuna stared at him in stunned silence—half from the situation, half because of the complete role reversal.
Gojo rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But if this is some kind of technique, barrier, alternate timeline, parallel dimension, whatever—we won’t get far if you’re screaming about being a god every ten minutes.”
Sukuna stared at him in stunned silence—half because of the sheer absurdity of the situation, and half because of the complete shift in Gojo’s demeanor.
The smug, infuriatingly cocky bastard was gone.
For the first time since their paths had crossed—back when Sukuna was imprisoned in that brat’s body, forced to watch Gojo prance around like the untouchable king of jujutsu—the arrogance was missing. There was no grin stretching ear to ear, no light-hearted snark or lazy confidence. Instead, Gojo stood before him, shoulders slightly hunched, face serious, the faintest trace of fear behind his blue eyes.
And that terrified Sukuna more than anything else.
He had never seen Gojo afraid.
Not when Mahoraga was adapting. Not when Agito charged with the full weight of a curse swarm. Not even when death loomed, and blood soaked them both.
Gojo had always fought like someone who could never lose—like someone who didn’t need to care because he was the strongest. But here and now? There was nothing left to hide behind. No Limitless. No Infinity. No Six Eyes. Just a human man in a cheap hospital chair, playing it safe and quiet, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile reality they’d been hurled into.
Sukuna’s mouth twitched, caught between a snarl and something else—disgust, maybe. Unease.
“You’re… afraid,” Sukuna said, voice low, almost curious.
Gojo didn’t flinch, but he didn’t deny it either.
Just then, the door creaked open.
A doctor walked in, clipboard in hand, his eyes immediately flicking to Sukuna with visible caution. He gave the King of Curses a polite but wary nod, then turned and extended his hand to Gojo.
“Good morning,” he greeted smoothly. “Feeling better?”
Gojo stood with practiced ease, smile gentle and warm. “Much better, thank you. The care we received these past two days was incredible.”
Sukuna’s head whipped around.
Two days?!
He stared at Gojo like he’d just announced the sky was green and pigs could tap dance. Two whole days had passed while he was unconscious?
Gojo continued smoothly, his voice as casual as ever. “We’re really sorry for any… disturbances we caused.”
The doctor chuckled lightly. “Well, the good news is that your lab results came back. Both of you were clean—no alcohol, no drugs. But you were both severely exhausted, especially you.” He glanced at Sukuna. “You both must’ve been pushing yourselves for a while.”
Gojo didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, we were flying in from Japan. Vacation. Didn’t sleep for days. Long trip. Jet lag.”
Sukuna stared. Lying. He’s lying. He narrowed his eyes, preparing to blow Gojo’s pathetic cover story to pieces—
—and then shut his mouth with a begrudging grunt.
The doctor now turned to him.
“And you?” he asked carefully. “Have you calmed down?”
Sukuna opened his mouth to retort with something scathing about being perfectly composed, when he caught Gojo’s eyes from the side. They widened—an unmistakable warning.
Sukuna clenched his jaw.
“…Yes,” he muttered with a glare.
The doctor gave a measured nod, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to argue. He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to Gojo.
“You can unlock the cuffs. He’s not flagged anymore.”
Gojo gently unlocked Sukuna’s restraints, and Sukuna immediately rubbed his sore wrist with a snarl, half embarrassed, half still furious.
Then came the inevitable.
“So,” the doctor asked, pen poised on the clipboard. “What’s your relationship to each other?”
Sukuna opened his mouth without hesitation. “We are the strongest. We—”
“We’re engaged,” Gojo blurted, louder than necessary.
Sukuna froze.
The room went quiet.
Gojo kept going, with a small sheepish laugh. “Our country doesn’t… allow marriages like ours, so we came to New York to elope. It was supposed to be romantic.” He gave a weak smile. “We didn’t sleep for days. Jet lag. Emotions. You know how it is.”
Sukuna was gaping, visibly horrified. He looked ready to explode into a thousand pieces of cursed rage.
The doctor, thankfully oblivious to the storm brewing, simply nodded. “Ah, that explains the emotional outbursts. Makes sense now.” He looked over at Sukuna, eyes softening slightly. “You’re lucky. Your husband didn’t leave your side the whole time.”
Sukuna inhaled sharply like he was about to scream into the void—but Gojo elbowed him.
Hard.
He hissed and shut up, fury sizzling just under his skin.
“Well,” the doctor concluded, handing them a stack of discharge paperwork, “you’re both cleared to go. If you ever feel the need for a follow-up—or mental health support—don’t hesitate to return.”
His gaze lingered pointedly on Sukuna, who looked personally offended that such a suggestion was even uttered in his presence.
Gojo offered a gracious bow and thanked the doctor, then turned to leave with the papers in hand.
Still stunned, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, Sukuna followed after him in silence.
They wandered aimlessly through the streets until the chaos of steel and noise melted into something greener. A patch of calm amidst the city madness. The very heart of Manhattan—Central Park, Gojo had said dryly, as if the name itself was supposed to impress him.
Sukuna stared at the sign in judgment. Central. Park. A place named as blandly as boiled rice.
Still, the sun was out now. The storm that had raged two days prior had finally cleared. The air was warm, birds chirping overhead like some annoying soundtrack to this ridiculous sitcom of a situation.
They slumped onto an empty bench, Gojo sitting with his head leaned back, eyes closed. Sukuna, arms folded tightly, glared at nothing in particular for a long moment.
Then finally, with the patience of a man at his limit, he turned toward Gojo and growled, “What the fuck was that back there?”
Gojo cracked one eye open. “What, the hospital thing?”
Sukuna looked seconds away from throttling him. “You said we were engaged.”
Gojo groaned and sat up, hands waving defensively. “Look, I didn’t have a choice, alright? I already told them my name was Gojo Satoru, and you—you—called yourself Ryomen Sukuna. What was I supposed to say? Brothers with different last names?”
“We could’ve been cousins,” Sukuna snapped. “Or co-workers, or anything else.”
Gojo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, I’ll use that next time we’re institutionalized.”
Sukuna looked like he was going to combust.
Gojo pointed at him. “Also, look at us. Look at what we’re wearing.”
Sukuna blinked. Then glanced down.
Traditional sorcerer robes. Bandages. Flowing fabrics. Blood-red accents.
He looked around the park.
Everyone else was wearing jeans. Hoodies. Sneakers. One guy had an entire Supreme tracksuit on. Another woman walked past sipping iced coffee in leggings and a Yankees cap.
Sukuna grimaced. “We look better than them.”
Gojo leaned back again, sighing. “We have no money. No phone. No food. No cursed tools. No anything.”
Sukuna’s stomach growled traitorously. Loudly.
He clenched his fists. “Why didn’t you bring your phone?”
Gojo whipped his head toward him, incredulous. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think to bring my iPhone in my pocket when I was preparing to fight you TO THE DEATH.”
Sukuna sneered. “This is your fault.”
Gojo snorted. “How the hell is this my fault?”
“You—” Sukuna jabbed a finger at him. “You’re the one who warped space with that stupid technique! Maybe you broke the universe!”
Gojo groaned again and slumped lower. “God, I hope this is just a weird coma dream.”
Sukuna leaned forward, lips curled. “So what now, oh fearless fiancé?”
Gojo rubbed his temples. “Now we find somewhere safe. Get food. Water. Clothes. Blend in. Then we retrace our steps and figure out what the hell happened.”
There was a pause.
Sukuna squinted at a group of women chatting and laughing near a food cart. “We could just rob them.”
Gojo sat bolt upright. “Absolutely not.”
Sukuna raised a brow. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to end up in actual jail,” Gojo hissed. “Not after everything.”
A beat.
They both turned their heads. A police officer stood nearby, watching them with narrowed eyes. He looked them up and down—strange robes, white and pink hair, oddly intense conversation about robbing people.
Gojo smiled stiffly. “Great. Just great.”
He grabbed Sukuna by the arm and yanked him off the bench. “Let’s go.”
Sukuna hissed. “Get your hands off me—”
“We’re blending in,” Gojo snapped under his breath, dragging him away.
Sukuna growled but followed, grumbling, “The moment I get my powers back, you’re going to regret everything that just came out of your mouth.”
Sukuna felt like he was going to keel over. Every step he took behind Gojo was heavier than the last. His stomach had long passed the point of growling; now it just throbbed angrily in protest, as if punishing him.
Gojo, lost in thought, marched forward with a strange look in his eyes—somewhere between calculated determination and total exhaustion. Sukuna scowled but kept following. Not like he had a choice. If he stood still too long, he was pretty sure his body would give out entirely.
Finally, Gojo stopped in front of a building with large glass windows and a clean, sterile entrance. Sukuna stared up at the gold letters.
BANK OF TOKYO He blinked slowly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Gojo didn’t answer. He just walked in, casual as anything, and headed for a little table in the center of the lobby where slips and pens were neatly stacked.
Sukuna hovered behind him, utterly confused. Gojo picked up a pen and began filling out paperwork like it was just another Tuesday.
Sukuna leaned in. “What the hell are we doing here?” he hissed, noticing how Gojo hadn’t said a single word out loud since entering.
Gojo didn’t even look at him. He gave him a tiny elbow to the ribs and muttered, “Don’t be weird. Just stand there and look normal.”
Sukuna glowered. Normal? He was a thousand-year-old sorcerer-turned-curse who once ruled an era by bathing it in blood. What part of him screamed “normal”?
Still, he kept his mouth shut, mostly because the room was overly air-conditioned and he didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.
Gojo took a deep breath and approached the counter. A woman with a tight bun and dark-rimmed glasses greeted him.
“Hi there. How can I help you?”
Gojo smiled, polite and measured. “I’d like to make a withdrawal. I don’t have ID on me, but I have the account number and password.”
The teller hesitated. “We usually need at least one form of identification…”
Gojo nodded. “I understand, but the number is tied to my identity, and I can answer all the security questions. It’s kind of an emergency.”
A pause.
The woman glanced at her screen. “Okay. If you can verify it, we’ll proceed.”
Gojo leaned in, rattling off a string of numbers and letters. His voice was steady, but Sukuna’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Gojo’s hands—tucked discreetly below the counter—were clenched into fists.
Sukuna frowned. This wasn’t the cocky brat he knew. This wasn’t the smirking, laughing, untouchable bastard who threw buildings around like dodgeballs.
This Gojo… was nervous. Timid, even.
And it unsettled him. A lot.
The teller tapped at her keyboard. Keys clacked. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Sukuna crossed his arms and huffed impatiently.
And then—fwrrrzzzzzzzt.
The sound of a cash counting machine whirred from behind the glass.
Sukuna’s head tilted slightly as he watched the large stack of bills being prepared. The teller placed it into a discreet envelope and handed it over.
“Here you are, Mr. Gojo.”
Gojo nodded, still wearing that calm, tight-lipped expression. He pocketed the envelope, thanked her, and turned around.
Sukuna stared at him.
“…You’re loaded,” he said flatly.
Gojo didn’t even bother responding. He just tucked the envelope into his pocket and jerked his chin toward the street. “Pick a hotel.”
Sukuna’s stomach twisted in hunger, his patience thinning by the second. He didn’t care where they stayed—as long as it had food. He glanced around, eyes landing on the first fancy building in sight. Gold lettering. Doormen in suits.
“The Ritz-Carlton,” Sukuna said, unimpressed.
“Sure,” Gojo shrugged, as if he’d been expecting worse.
Without hesitation, Gojo walked inside like he belonged there, Sukuna trailing behind in billowing robes and an expression that screamed don’t talk to me or I’ll kill you.
They approached the front desk. The receptionist smiled politely—though her eyes flickered briefly over their… unusual attire.
“How can I help you today?” she asked, perfectly professional.
“We need a room,” Gojo said smoothly. “Immediately available.”
She clicked through something on her computer before looking back up with an apologetic smile. “We do have a one-bedroom available right now, but if you’re willing to wait four hours, a two-bedroom suite will open up.”
Sukuna’s stomach growled loudly enough to draw a few stares.
He snapped before his brain could catch up. “The one-bedroom is fine.”
Gojo shot him a glare, clearly annoyed at the outburst but not disagreeing. “Yeah,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ll take the one-bedroom.”
The receptionist nodded. “How long will you be staying?”
Gojo hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, “One week, please.”
Sukuna’s head jerked toward him. A week? How much money did this bastard have?
“That’ll be $3,500,” the woman said pleasantly.
Sukuna blinked. What the hell kind of place is this?
Gojo didn’t even flinch. He peeled off a neat stack of bills from his envelope, sliding them across the counter without a care. If Sukuna wasn’t half delirious from hunger, he might have strangled him just to find out how deep his pockets really went.
The receptionist counted the money, smiled brightly, and handed over two key cards. “Your bellboy will escort you to your room. Enjoy your stay!”
A young bellboy appeared moments later, eyeing the two tall men warily. “This way, gentlemen…” he said carefully.
They followed him through the pristine hallways and into an elevator that felt far too clean for people who had nearly killed each other two days ago. The bellboy stopped outside their door, keying it open before stepping aside with a polite nod.
Gojo handed him a twenty without hesitation, flashing his usual charming smile.
“Thanks.”
The bellboy left quickly, clearly relieved.
The second the footsteps faded, Gojo and Sukuna looked at each other—
—and made a beeline for the minibar.
Sukuna practically ripped the fridge open, grabbing the first thing he saw—two bags of chips and a can of soda—while Gojo snatched a bottle of water like his life depended on it. For a moment, there was silence, both of them too busy shoveling snacks into their mouths to care about anything else.
Then they both turned—and stared at the single bed.
Their eyes narrowed in unison.
Without a word, they lunged.
Sukuna dove first, sprawling across the mattress with a victorious snarl—only for Gojo to shove him off with an exaggerated grunt.
“I paid for the room,” Gojo huffed, settling comfortably in the center of the bed. “I get the bed.”
Sukuna, crumbs still stuck to his lips, clambered back up and shoved Gojo with his knee. “Why should the King of Curses sleep on the floor?”
“Because the King of Curses didn’t bring any money,” Gojo shot back, grabbing his water and scooting toward the pillows.
Sukuna growled and threw himself onto the mattress again, nearly knocking Gojo over.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Gojo barked, half laughing, half exasperated as he shoved Sukuna toward the edge.
“What’s wrong is you thinking I’ll sleep on the damn floor,” Sukuna snapped, mouth full of chips as he elbowed Gojo in retaliation.
It went on like that for several minutes—shoving, snapping, muttered threats of murder—until both of them, too exhausted to continue, collapsed onto their own sides of the bed, glaring at the ceiling while they ate in silence.
Sukuna crunched loudly on his chips, crumbs scattered across the blankets.
Gojo sipped his water, dramatically avoiding eye contact.
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that settled heavy between them like fog. The only sound was the crinkle of an empty chip bag and Gojo’s water bottle making a quiet glunk as he drained it.
Still staring at the ceiling, Gojo exhaled slowly.
"This is not great."
Sukuna scoffed. "Yeah. No shit. This whole situation is stupid."
Gojo shook his head. "No, I mean—it’s really not great. I was able to take money out of a bank account. That means the Gojo clan exists here."
Sukuna turned to him like he had grown three extra heads. "Yeah. And?"
Gojo closed his eyes in pure, exhausted annoyance. "You're not getting it. In this place—this version of the world—we don’t have cursed energy. At all. No cursed energy, no jujutsu, no sorcerers. Which means if the Gojo clan exists here, and the money was real… we’re in a version of reality where the people we knew exist, but none of the things that made us who we are, do."
Sukuna raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Just because we lost our powers due to some idiotic trick you clearly pulled doesn’t mean cursed energy is gone. Maybe it’s you who’s broken."
Gojo finally turned to look at him, eyes narrowed and sharp.
"Okay. Fine. Then try to sense it. Not use it—sense it. Feel the air. Try to detect anything."
Sukuna didn’t move.
Gojo sat up slightly, eyes focused, voice low but firm. "We were in a hospital. You know what always shows up in hospitals—curses. Even weak ones. Floating around like pests. You were unconscious for two days, and I waited—I stayed next to your sorry ass just to see if any curses would appear."
His voice tightened.
"They didn’t."
The silence came crashing back, heavier now. Sukuna didn’t move, but Gojo saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"There were none. Not even the tiniest one. Hospitals are basically cursed energy buffets. But this place? This version of the world? Nothing."
Gojo leaned back again, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.
"That means we can’t contact anyone. No Megumi. No Yuuji. No Nobara. Not even Gakuganji or Utahime. Because odds are—they don’t know us. They never met us. They’re just… living normal lives. Separately. We never crossed paths."
Sukuna’s mouth had gone dry. His fingers, still dusted with chip crumbs, curled slightly.
"And I don’t know why we’re here," Gojo said softly. "I don’t know what happened. But I think… we’re the only two that got pulled in."
Sukuna sat up slowly, still facing Gojo. "You said the Gojo clan exists."
Gojo nodded. "Yeah."
"So… does Gojo Satoru exist?"
Gojo hesitated.
"I don’t know. Maybe. But whether he does or not, we can’t risk it. We stay low. I was able to pull out enough cash to stay off the radar, as long as I don’t take more than 20,000 at a time."
Sukuna stared.
"You took that much?!"
Gojo glanced away. "We needed it."
Sukuna opened his mouth to argue, then paused.
"What if we find this version of you. And I don’t know—beat the crap out of him? Take back what’s ours?"
Gojo’s eyes snapped to his.
"How?" he said, voice suddenly sharp. "With what, Sukuna? A bag of chips and a can of soda? We don’t have powers."
Sukuna glared at his tone but didn’t look away.
"They subdued us. Two days ago. At the Empire State Building. You remember that? We were restrained in seconds. No powers, no domain expansions, no reverse cursed technique. Just regular guys. Strong maybe—but regular."
The gravity in Gojo’s voice pulled at Sukuna like a weight.
"We are on our own. You and me. That’s it. And we need to figure out what happened, how it happened, and how to reverse it."
Sukuna, for once, didn’t respond with a snarl or a threat. He just stared at the man across from him—the man who once stood untouchable above the world—and now looked tired, trapped, and terrifyingly human.
"...Fine," Sukuna hissed. "We find out what happened."
Gojo looked at him, jaw tight.
"And we fix it.”