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.
“Welcome home,” Gojo said.
But for this one evening, standing in the ruin of his grandfather’s apartment, with the strongest sorcerer in the world pretending to sweep the floor, Yuji Itadori felt the smallest, most dangerous emotion of all. Home RESULT FOR- JUJUTSU
Hope.
And Yuji, for the first time in a very long time, replied, “I’m home.” Gojo snapped his fingers
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-sensei…”
Gojo stopped. He turned, and for the first time, Yuji saw the exhaustion behind the smile. It was the same exhaustion Yuji felt in his own bones.
This was the apartment he’d shared with his grandfather. This was the place he’d left every morning, shouting “I’m off!” to a grunt and a wave. This was home . But the air shifted
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.