Chapter 8: To Be Smitten

Utahime hadn’t stopped checking her appearance in the mirror. Since she woke up—a good forty-seven minutes before her alarm rang—she had done little else but scrutinize her reflection.

She had bathed again, though she hadn’t needed to, and scrubbed her body raw. The faint floral scent of her soap lingered on her damp skin long after she had dried off and smoothed lotion over her arms and legs. She applied moisturizer to her face with careful, upward strokes, then sunscreen, then the lightest touch of makeup, dabbing at her under-eyes to soften the shadows of sleeplessness.

Her hair was another ordeal. She had combed through it with methodical patience at first, then frustration, then something close to desperation. Too damp. Too flat. Too puffy. By the time she had wrangled it into her usual pigtails, the strands were dry and frizzy, ends sticking out at odd angles like they resented being a part of her.

And then she saw it. A pink bump forming at the edge of her chin. The kind that would swell and pulse if she touched it too much.

Why now?

She leaned in, pressing her fingertips against the cool glass. The unforgiving bathroom light cast everything in terrifying vividness: the faint, bluish hollows under her eyes, the uneven texture of her skin, the pores that seemed to have expanded overnight. And, of course, the blemish, small but impossible to ignore.

A knock at the door made her jolt. Shoko.

Utahime exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. If Shoko hadn’t interrupted, she could have stayed there for hours, cataloging every imperfection. Instead, she had to accept what she was. Her face, her skin, her hair, her body—every piece of her that felt so painfully ordinary. Even her boobs were uneven, though she had thought that only happened to well-endowed women.

She yanked open a drawer, fishing for concealer, but her fingers were unsteady. Maybe it was pointless. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Still, she hesitated before turning away from the mirror.

She stopped at the doorway, heart pounding painfully against her ribs, before making quick work of the concealer on her budding pimple.

Rattled by Shoko’s persistent knocking, Utahime flicked off the bathroom light and dashed to the door without capping the concealer.

The hallway light spilled in as she opened it, casting a soft glow over Shoko, who was leaning against the doorframe, thumb gliding over her phone screen.

“Good morning.”

Something about her tone felt off. Not teasing, not mocking—just vaguely knowing. Like she was in on some joke Utahime wasn’t privy to.

Utahime resisted the urge to check her reflection in the hallway mirror, instead smoothing the hem of her blouse to soothe her anxieties. She pulled her door shut behind her and fell into step beside Shoko. “Good morning. How did your mission go?”

“Nothing special. Just the same old corpse,” she said. “How was cleanup with Gojo yesterday?”

Utahime’s fingers twitched toward her bangs, combing them unnecessarily before she could stop herself. She kept her gaze forward. Outside, the morning sun was still gentle, casting pale gold light over the courtyard. The grass was damp, the scent of earth and dew lingering in the air. Something about the campus felt different—cleaner, fresher, like everything had been reset overnight.

Had something actually changed? Or had she just slept well for once? Was four hours of sleep good enough?

“Annoying,” Utahime said, her voice pitched a little too high. She winced at herself, then quickly cleared her throat, trying again with forced indifference. “We barely got anything done. He wouldn’t stop complaining.”

Shoko didn’t even glance up from her phone. “Oh yeah? Sounds like him.”

Utahime side-eyed her. “Senpai, do you have a boyfriend or something? Why are you so busy on your phone?”

“It’s just Getou.”

“Oh.” Utahime tilted her head slightly, eyes drifting toward the glowing display in Shoko’s hands. The blueish light cast faint shadows over her fingers, her nails neatly trimmed but stained slightly yellow at the tips—lingering traces of cigarette smoke, probably. “Is it anything serious? Is he in trouble?”

Shoko giggled. She typed out a final message, then snapped her phone shut with a decisive clack. “Trouble? No, but it is serious.” She stretched her arms behind her head with a satisfied groan. “We’re planning a trip. Hey, what do you say about going to an onsen with us?”

Utahime faltered mid-step. “Eh?” She pointed at herself, then at Shoko, then vaguely at the empty space ahead of them, as if another person would materialize there to explain the logic. “You, me, and Getou-senpai?”

“I wish.” Shoko sighed wistfully. “But someone has to pay for a trip like that.”

They stepped into the cafeteria, immediately met with the clatter of trays, the shuffle of chairs, and the distant hum of morning conversation. The scent of miso soup and grilled fish lingered in the air, blending with the sharper notes of fresh rice, coffee, and green tea.

Among the familiar noise, Utahime picked up on Nanami and Haibara’s voices—Nanami’s measured and low, Haibara’s bright and enthusiastic. Then, a softer chuckle. Getou.

She had just reached for a tray when another voice cut through the air. Gojo.

It was like being doused with cold water.

Her fingers curled around the tray’s edge, knuckles pressing against the smooth plastic. It wasn’t the first time she had reacted like this to his presence, but this felt different. She was hyperaware of him for all the wrong reasons. For a moment, she stood frozen, her mind replaying last night’s dinner—how, in hindsight, it had been... nice. Strangely easy. She had let herself relax, allowed the sharp edge of her words to soften, and somehow, he had just laughed everything off. No teasing. No smugness. Just laughter.

She exhaled slowly, shaking the thought away, and followed Shoko toward their usual table.

Gojo and Getou were already mid-argument, their words overlapping in sharp bursts. Across from them, Nanami was standing to move toward a quieter table, while Haibara tried and failed to get the other two to lower their voices.

Greetings were exchanged. Nanami left Haibara behind, who decided soon after to follow him.

Shoko slipped onto the bench beside Getou, setting her tray down with a deliberate clink. Without preamble, she announced, “Utahime’s coming with us to the onsen.”

The debate at the table died instantly.

Getou turned to Utahime, smiling. “Have you ever been to Gunma Prefecture?”

Utahime’s brain stuttered, torn between answering and figuring out where to sit. The only available spot—the only logical spot—was beside Gojo. But the closer she got to him, the more she was sure the heat creeping up her neck would betray her, and Shoko would definitely notice.

Other girls always picked up on these things first.

Gojo, meanwhile, was busy leaning across the table, expertly swiping a piece of meat from Getou’s plate. He chewed lazily, eyes half-lidded with amusement, before side-eyeing Utahime.

“Are you gonna eat standing up?” Gojo asked.

Utahime exhaled sharply through her nose and, feigning annoyance, sat on the very edge of the bench. She focused on her tray, nudging her rice around with her chopsticks. “I’ve never been,” she mumbled, ignoring Gojo entirely.

“Oh, good. You’ll enjoy it,” Getou said. “Satoru’s paying for all of us.”

“Huh?”

Gojo barely looked up as he pointed his chopsticks at Utahime. “You invited her?”

Utahime smacked his chopsticks away with a flick of her wrist. “I never said I’ll go.”

Unbothered, Getou exchanged a glance with Shoko. He ducked his head toward her, voice dropping conspiratorially. “So, that’s four of us, since Nanami and Haibara will be on a mission. We can probably leave on the next holiday and stay at least two days, three nights. Do some sightseeing on the way.”

“You mean you want to take the train?” Shoko mused, stirring her tea. “Gojo probably has a limousine we can use.”

Across the table, Gojo muttered under his breath as he mixed raw egg with his rice, the golden yolk folding into the white grains and turning everything a murky color. “We don’t use limousines.”

Shoko’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. She turned to Utahime. “Is it true, or is he scamming us?”

“Now I’m the scammer?” Gojo asked.

Utahime glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then quickly looked back at her food. She hadn’t noticed before how fast his ears turned red when he was irritated. It was an odd contrast—his usual arrogance made it easy to assume nothing ever got under his skin.

She cleared her throat, nudging at a piece of fish with her chopsticks. “Uhm, well, no, he’s not lying. Bigger clans don’t flaunt their wealth like that. They don’t want to attract attention—but they’ll definitely be driving foreign cars.”

Getou whistled. “So, Satoru, which is it? Mercedes-Benz? BMW? Rolls-Royce?”

Gojo stabbed his chopsticks into his rice with dramatic force. “If you don’t stop asking about my clan, I won’t drop a single yen for this trip.”

“And here we thought you’d educate us on the secret lives of lineage sorcerers,” Getou sighed theatrically. “I suppose we’ll have to rely on Utahime for answers.”

Utahime wrinkled her nose. “It’s not as interesting as it sounds. It’s like having two employers. We answer both to our families and to Jujutsu High.”

Shoko lifted her tea to her lips, eyes half-lidded as she considered that. “It must have its perks, though. You have a family with insight into your techniques. They train you as soon as you can walk. You have connections and maybe some sort of protection.”

Utahime hesitated. Her pupils darted between Getou and Shoko, who both watched her patiently as they ate.

They were among the few non-lineage sorcerers in her inner circle, and it struck her only now that life for them must be different.

Unlike her and Gojo, they hadn’t been born into this life. They had been recruited, likely by happenstance. If their techniques were destructive, like Getou’s, then someone must have discovered them after some sort of tragedy—maybe after hush money had been paid to a grieving family, or after a body had been hidden in exchange for their silence.

How did it feel like to wake up one day and be told you belonged in an entirely different world?

“Sure, there are perks,” Utahime admitted. “But they only take you so far. You still have to earn your standing through merit. If I’m being totally honest, I think it’s harder being a lineage sorcerer. The two of you always have the option to quit. Gojo and I carry the weight of our families on our backs.”

“It’s Gojo-senpai,” Gojo hissed.

Utahime shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Like I said, some things you still have to earn by merit.”

Another argument would’ve erupted—Utahime was sure of it—had Yaga not interrupted their breakfast.

The heavy thud of his steps cut through their conversation, and the moment they spotted him, both she and Gojo shrank in their seats. They had definitely not cleaned up the gymnasium properly, and Yaga’s presence all but confirmed they were about to pay for it.

But instead of the expected scolding—or the usual, exasperated tap on the head for her—Yaga placed a thick folder beside Utahime’s tray.

“A request for you came in an hour ago,” he said. “Your father confirmed that you’ve cleansed a building that belongs to this family before, so I gave it the green light.”

Utahime’s fingers hesitated over the folder before flipping it open. The paper inside smelled faintly of ink and something sterile, like it had just been printed. The first page held a clipped photograph of a building’s exterior, its familiar silhouette striking a nerve deep in her memory.

She inhaled through her nose. She didn’t need to read the rest. She already knew.

“Sensei, not to complain but…” Her voice trailed off as she snuck a peak at Gojo over her shoulder. It was quick, but Gojo had met her gaze, and at once, his words from last night returned to her.

Her throat tightened. She tore her gaze away, gripping the edge of the folder a little too hard. “This client’s circumstances kind of… generate grade one curses.”

“It’s a clean-up. There are no reported disturbances.”

“Y-yes, but you see…”

Yaga’s expression darkened, his brows dipping into a deep scowl. Even the usual morning chatter around them faltered. Nanami and Haibara, at the nearby table, had gone silent.

Utahime swallowed thickly. She didn’t need to look up to know that every eye was on them now. “I-I can do it!” She snatched up the folder and scrambled out of her seat. “It’s no big deal!”

“Satoru,” Yaga called.

“What?”

“Go with her. Take care of any curse and watch her while she cleanses the place. I don’t want either of you returning with a single scratch, got it?”

Getou set his chopsticks aside with a small clink and pushed his tray away. “Should I go with them?”

“They can handle it.” Yaga was already turning on his heel. “Consider it their punishment for not cleaning up the gymnasium as told.”

Shoko, having remained quiet through the exchange, bumped Utahime’s leg under the table with her foot. “Hey, you okay? What was that about?”

Before she could answer, Gojo swiped the folder from her and rounded their table. “Let’s go, pipsqueak.”

“Hey!” She shot up to chase after him but stopped, hesitating. Then, she spun back toward the table, stabbed her fork into her sausage, and took a final bite before bolting after him.

“Senpai, I’ll message you later! Bye!”

Shoko and Getou exchanged a look as they watched her disappear out the cafeteria doors, trailing after Gojo like a storm waiting to break.

There were many reasons Gojo didn’t indulge Suguru and Shoko with the intricacies of clan life.

He had broached the topic plenty of times before, skirting the edges of what could be said, what should be said as warning against the higher-powers of the Jujutsu world—but never stepping over the line. Because once he did, there would be no going back. Some things about their heritage were better left unspoken.

This was one of them.

He breathed out quietly to hide his growing frustration and turned his gaze from the darkened skyline of Sendai to Utahime, who sat rigidly at the other end of the backseat. The dim glow of establishment flickered through the tinted windows, casting long, fractured shadows over her face. In the thirty minutes since they left campus, the sky had darkened, as if to mirror their mood.

Utahime hadn’t spoken to him since. Her hands tightened around the sleeves of her uniform, released it, and found something else to fiddle.

Their assigned manager sat in the passenger seat, flipping through a stack of papers, oblivious to the tension brewing between them.

“But you didn’t draw a veil, right?” Gojo had asked earlier, idly tapping the folder against his knee. “You didn’t try to lure out any curse that might have the ability to hide its presence?”

The manager stiffened. “That would’ve been reckless. What if something actually came out?”

He waved the folder in the air. “Then assign the mission to a higher-grade sorcerer.”

“Miss Utahime was specifically requested.” His fingers stilled around the folder.

Then, with little hesitation, he smacked the manager on the head with it. “Who do you work for? Jujutsu High or the clients?”

The manager shrank back, scrambling for an excuse. It didn’t matter. Gojo had already stopped listening. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he waved his hand, ending the conversation.

The rest of the ride passed in thick silence, interrupted only by the occasional static crackle of the car radio and the hum of tires over uneven roads. As they left the city behind, the buildings grew sparser, the shops fewer and farther between. By the time they reached the outskirts of Sendai, the roads were slick with an earlier rain shower, puddles reflecting the dull glow of neon signs in the distance.

And then, the building came into view.

A hulking, skeletal structure, crouching in the dark like something long-forgotten.

The windows—what remained of them—were shattered, gaping like open mouths. The old signage above the entrance had been stripped away, leaving behind rusted bolts and the faint, ghostly outline of letters that had long since faded. Vines crawled up the side of the building, curling around exposed rebar, creeping into the cracks of weathered concrete.

It was clear that no one had set foot here for years. But something else had. Gojo could feel it the moment he stepped out of the car.

The atmosphere felt like liquid, dense and suffocating, wrapping itself around everything. It wasn’t just the dampness from the rain—it felt as though the very space was saturated with something else, something unseen, that slowed every movement and made the air feel almost impossible to breathe through.

The manager let down the veil, and Gojo turned to Utahime.

“So,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, “are we going to talk about how this mission is bullshit, or are we just going to walk in like idiots?”

Utahime didn’t answer right away. She was staring up at the building, her shoulders locked so tight they barely moved when she breathed.

Then, finally, she took a step forward. "Hey."

Gojo grabbed one of Utahime’s pigtails, yanking just hard enough to stop her in her tracks.

She stumbled backward with a yelp, spinning around to smack his hand away. "That hurt! What’s your problem?"

"You know what my problem is." He tugged at her other pigtail for good measure, ignoring the way she batted at him like an irritated cat. "Yaga wouldn’t have been that pissed if this mission is as straightforward as the client and managers are making it seem."

Utahime huffed, massaging her scalp where he’d pulled. She shot him her best glare, but her irritation looked more like stubborn determination than genuine anger. "It’s not the manager’s fault. The family who owns this building is old money. They probably own half the establishments here. Years ago, they hired my family to put up talismans to prevent curses from forming, but sometimes, you know, some activities are so bad that the negative energy just grows like mold and overpowers the talismans."

"And you just said yes to this mission like that?" He lifted a hand and pointed toward the upper floors of the building. The fifth story, in particular, loomed in the dark, barely visible against the overcast sky. Something thick and rotten pulsed from within, almost as if it were breathing.

"You and I can feel it from here. There's a filthy special-grade blanket ghost up there waiting to bite you in half."

Utahime folded her arms. "Don't be dramatic. It probably surfaced because it sensed your cursed energy."

"It would’ve come out while you were performing your stupid technique."

"My technique isn’t stupid." She lifted the hem of her hakama slightly, stomping her boots onto the cracked pavement for emphasis. "And I run well in these!"

"So that’s what you did last time? I bet you reacted the way you did earlier because this isn’t the first time you were thrown into a situation like this."

Utahime looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. "The curses don’t always come out when I remove the old talismans with my technique. When they do, and they’re stronger than me, I retreat. But I fight if I can."

“Does your family know?” He had never interacted with Master Iori personally, but he had heard stories. Gojo doubted Utahime’s father was the kind of man to let his daughter go on missions like this.

“Uhm, so, you see, he didn’t have to know,” she whispered.

Gojo clicked his tongue. Without another word, he grabbed her by the head and shoved her behind him as he strode toward the building. "Get out of my way. I’ll kill this thing, and then you can do your salsa or karaoke or whatever it is you do to summon your technique."

Utahime stomped after him. "You don’t have to be protective, you know? We’re both professional sorcerers. Whatever happens to me is just occupational hazard."

Gojo opened his mouth to shoot back something snide—but then it hit him.

Annoyance struck him like a lance through his skull. It hurt as if a heated blade had been driven through his ear straight into his brain. His balance wavered for a fraction of a second, and in that instant, his foot plunged into a deep puddle. The cold, grimy water seeped into his socks, soaking through the fabric and making his shoes heavy.

All of his willpower went into not snapping at Utahime, who was still rambling about how she usually handled missions like this, as if she hadn’t just walked into a death trap.

She stepped around him, still talking, but before Gojo could clamp his hand over her mouth, she disappeared.

One of the nearby puddles was deeper than she anticipated, and she barely managed to catch herself on the rim before her entire body plunged into the murky depths.

Gojo smirked, stepping around the puddle. "Serves you right."

“This is all your fault!”

“If you have a little bit of intelligence in you, it should be clear that I’m making an effort to keep you alive.”

“Well, no thank you!”

“You little—” He reached down to grab her wrist, expecting some begrudging resistance—but Utahime, for once, was sensible enough to accept the help.

Just as their fingers brushed, she plunged.

The water swallowed her whole.

Gojo blinked, his brain scrambling to process what had just happened.

The water wasn’t just water. It wasn’t a puddle. It churned unnaturally, thick and dark, the surface rippling as if something beneath was pulling. The reflection of the storefront across the street twisted in its depths, stretching and contorting before vanishing completely.

A sharp, cold tension coiled in his chest. He had seen people disappear before, seen them dragged under by things unseen—but this was different. This was now, and Utahime was in there.

His body reacted before his mind fully caught up. He moved, shoving away the brief stiffness in his limbs, and jumped in after her.

Utahime was in here somewhere. He just had to find her.

Utahime rolled to her side. The moment her mouth opened, water gushed from her throat in thick, putrid waves—too much of it, streaked with green and red. So much red.

Her stomach lurched. She choked, heaving until there was nothing left, until the taste of iron and bile coated her tongue, until the wet stone beneath her cheek grew sticky and warm.

Slowly, her surroundings took shape. A heavy, suffocating darkness closed in from all sides, broken only by the faintest slivers of light filtering from above. The air smelled wrong. It was damp and rotting, thick with the stench of mold and stagnant water.

Then, pain.

It crept in gradually, like something settling over her skin, before flaring all at once. Her entire body ached in shock. Her limbs felt like dead weight, her kosode and hakama clinging to her like oil-soaked rags. Every breath came shallow and tight, her ribs protesting even the smallest movement.

She braced her hands against the slick ground, forcing herself upright, but the moment she shifted, something ripped.

White-hot pain shot through her leg, so sharp that her vision went stark and empty for several seconds. A strangled gasp tore from her throat as she crumpled back down, her fingers clawing at the front of her kosode, body wracked with violent tremors.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

When the pain dulled just enough for her mind to return, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to look.

Her leg.

It was there—but bent at an angle that should’ve been impossible.

And then she saw it.

Bone.

Jutting through skin, white and clean beneath the grime, stark as the moon in an inky sky.

Utahime slapped a hand over her mouth before the scream could escape. Her chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven bursts, hot tears spilling freely down her face.

But she didn’t make a sound.

Not when the special grade curse was near.