Chapter Text
The playground wasn’t very big: a crooked swing set, wooden climbing bars that creaked when the wind blew too hard, and a metal slide that burned in the summer and froze in the winter.
Uzumaki Naruto lingered at the edge, watching.
Other kids were laughing—playing ninja tag and tumbling through the sandbox like it was a battlefield of their own making.
She stared at them, small hands swallowed by the too-long sleeves of her jacket.
A red scarf wrapped around her neck flared slightly in the winter breeze. Its weave was worn and fraying at the edges, uneven from being scrubbed too many times in cold river water. Too big for her and always slipping off one shoulder. It kept her warm anyways.
She took a step. Then another. Sandals crunching on gravel as she made her way toward the sandbox.
A pink-haired girl sat there alone, meticulously shaping something in the sand.
Naruto crept closer, tilting her head. “Whoa,” she breathed, eyes wide. “That’s so cool.”
The pink-haired girl jumped a little, hands hovering protectively over the half-built shape in front of her. She blinked up at Naruto, then down at her castle again. “It’s not done yet,” she whispered.
Naruto plopped down cross-legged in the sand without waiting for an invitation, scarf slipping sideways as she leaned in. “What is it?”
The girl hesitated, still shielding the castle with small hands. But then she glanced up again—met Naruto’s bright, eager eyes—and her shoulders eased.
“A castle,” the girl said, so softly it almost got lost in the wind. “For a princess.”
Naruto’s mouth fell open in awe. “Are you the princess?”
The girl’s face turned pink all the way to her ears. She shook her head fast, hiding behind her bangs. “N-No.”
“Oh.” Naruto scratched her cheek, then grinned wide. “You look like one.”
The girl peeked at her from under her hair, lip caught between her teeth. But her hands stopped trembling, and a tiny, wobbly smile started to grow.
Naruto’s heart puffed up a little at the sight.
She shoved her sleeves up and slapped her palms into the sand. “Show me how to do it! I can help! I’m really good at—uh—dirt stuff!”
The girl paused, uncertain for a moment, before pointing at the lumpy trench circling the castle walls. “The moat’s really hard…”
Naruto’s grin stretched bigger. “Yeah? I’ll make the best moat ever!” She froze halfway through her first dig, then blinked. “…What’s a moat?”
The girl’s giggle slipped out before she could catch it. “It’s the water. Around the castle. So no bad guys can get in.”
Naruto gasped like that was the coolest thing she’d ever heard. “Ohhhh! Okay! I got it!”
And without another word, she started digging fast, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth in pure concentration.
She smushed a big glob of sand onto one side of the castle wall, then sat back to admire it. “We should add a secret tunnel,” she said suddenly, eyes bright.
The pinkette paused, shooting her companion an incredulous glance. “Huh? Why would a princess need that?”
“So the princess can sneak out at night,” Naruto said matter-of-factly. “To go on adventures! Fight oni! Find treasure! Or save people when bandits come!”
The girl tilted her head, considering. “But… princes are supposed to do that.”
Naruto froze mid-scoop, then squinted at her like she’d just suggested eating sand. “Why?”
“Because… that’s what princes do,” the girl said, like it was obvious. “Princesses wait in the castle. Or they get spirited away and wait for the prince to come save them.”
Naruto wrinkled her nose. “That’s dumb.”
The pink-haired girl gasped, scandalized. “It’s not dumb! It’s the story!”
“Well, it’s boring,” Naruto huffed, puffing out her cheeks as she went back to digging. “If I got taken by spirits, I’d punch my way out myself, ‘ttebayo!”
The girl opened her mouth—probably to argue—but then paused. After a moment, she tilted her head and asked, “Are you the princess?”
Naruto stilled. Blinked. Then burst into laughter. “Nah. I’m the wandering ronin!” She jumped up, swinging an imaginary katana through the air with big dramatic slashes. “Or—or maybe I’d be the dragon!”
That earned her a small, reluctant giggle. The girl ducked her head, hiding her smile behind her hands. “You’re weird.”
They worked like that for a few more moments—pressing their hands flat for the walls, smoothing out towers, poking holes for windows.
And for that little stretch of time, it felt almost… normal.
Almost like she could belong.
Then—
“Sakura!”
The voice snapped like a whip across the playground.
Sharp.
Loud.
Naruto flinched instinctively. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She knew that tone. She always knew that tone.
A woman came hurrying over—tall, well-dressed, with the same pink hair as the girl in the sand. Without so much as a glance at Naruto, she bent down and scooped Sakura up into her arms like she was something fragile and breakable.
“Kaa—” the pinkette tried to say, but the woman was already turning away, grip too tight for how small the girl was.
“Don’t talk to her,” the woman muttered harshly. Not even whispering. Just saying it like it was a rule.
Naruto blinked.
“I—I wasn’t—” she started, but her voice sounded small.
The woman didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at her.
“We’re going,” she said sharply, turning away.
“But—I wanted to—”
“We’re going, Sakura.”
The girl twisted in her mother’s arms to peek back over her shoulder, expression small and guilty and unsure. Her gaze lingered just a second too long on Naruto—who sat there with dirt-smudged cheeks and hands still full of sand.
She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Didn’t dare say another word.
Because somehow… she already knew.
No one was going to tell her what she did wrong.
They were just going to leave.
Again.
The half-finished moat was still shaped under her hands, an uneven ring around a sandcastle that already looked lonelier than before. Grains of sand clung to her fingernails. Her throat felt strange—like she’d swallowed something dry and scratchy and it was stuck there now.
Behind her, another parent muttered, not softly enough:
“That’s the one. The red-haired brat.”
”Why is it allowed to be near children?”
“It’s dangerous. Just look at it. Trouble if I’ve ever seen it.”
She pretended not to hear.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t turn around.
She just sat there for a moment, staring down at the broken remnants of their castle. At the hollow in the sand where the rest of the moat would’ve gone. The warmth from earlier had already slipped away. The kind that came from shared laughter, from being seen—even for a moment.
Her throat clenched tighter.
But she shook her head. Shook it hard, like maybe that would knock the lump loose.
Then she blinked. Once. Twice. Fast and firm. And she stood.
She slapped a smile on her face—too wide, too bright. Her cheeks ached from it.
Then—only then—did she square her shoulders and march toward the jungle gym.
“Hey!” she called out, already climbing the first rung. “Bet I can beat all of you at ninja tag!”
A boy near the slide scrunched up his nose. “No! You can’t!”
Her grin faltered slightly. “Why not?”
“Cause you’re a freak,” another piped up. “My mom says you’re cursed!”
“I’m not cursed!” she said, though her voice wobbled.
“She looks like a boy now!” a girl from the monkey bars added with a mean giggle. “A weird, tomato-haired boy!”
Naruto’s stomach twisted. Her face felt hot all over again. “I’m not a boy—!”
More kids gathered. The teasing got bolder.
”Tomato-head!”
”More like squashed tomato!”
”Cursed!”
Naruto stood there, right in the middle of them, hands shaking at her sides.
Her shirt was wrinkled. Her face was smudged with dirt. And her hair—or what was left of it stuck out at odd angles, cropped short and uneven. It had once been long and wildly red—like fire, jiji once told her. Now it just looked like something fire had chewed up and spat out.
She’d trimmed the ends herself last night after dinner.
It was the usual, her favorite; instant ramen. She hadn’t eaten lunch, and the ache in her stomach had gotten loud. So she’d dragged a chair to the counter, climbed up on her knees, and twisted the stove’s knobs the way she’d learned to do.
The gas hissed, but the fire wouldn’t start. So she leaned in close. Clicked and clicked.
Then—whoosh.
The flame burst to life all at once, too fast, too big. She didn’t even scream. It hadn’t touched her skin, but it had eaten the ends of her hair.
She hadn’t cried then.
She wouldn’t cry now.
She just stared down at her feet—shoes scuffed raw, toes half-numb from the cold. She turned to leave, but a sudden yank dragged her backward.
One of the boys had grabbed the edge of her scarf.
Naruto lurched, nearly choking as the fabric snapped tight against her neck. Her hands flew up, clawing at it in a panic, knuckles going white as she clutched it close.
“Let go!” she shouted, voice shaking more than she wanted.
“Make me,” he shot back, still tugging.
A girl giggled near the swings. “Looks stupid anyway! Tomato-head with a tomato scarf!”
Naruto’s stomach twisted. Her face flushed hot all over again. “It’s not stupid,” she said quickly, voice cracking at the edges. “I—It’s mine—”
The words barely left her mouth before someone shoved her from behind. Not hard. Just enough to send her stumbling.
Her knees hit first. Then her hands. The gravel scraped rough and sharp against her skin.
The laughter swelled.
It was loud and ugly and high-pitched. It rang in her ears.
Naruto stayed down, fists buried in the dirt, scarf twisted tight against her throat, breath coming hard and fast.
Her throat burned where it had pulled.
Her chest burned worse.
And then—
“Tch. You’re all louder than you are skilled.”
Uchiha Sasuke—undisputed king of ninja tag—stood at the edge of the swingset, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His dark, unreadable gaze swept across the group—eyes bored, mouth flat, and his pale hands shoved deep into his pockets.
He wasn’t glaring. That would have meant he cared.
Just looked through them, like they weren’t worth his time.
The effect was immediate.
One of the girls gasped, clutching at her cheeks. “Sasuke-kun!” she squeaked, scandalized and swooning all at once. “You don’t mean—“
Another boy bristled. “What’s your problem?”
But Sasuke was already walking away. He didn’t look back, didn’t even answer.
After a few paces, he slowed—and without even glancing, reached back to grab someone’s hand. The boy he pulled beside him looked older, taller, dressed in darker clothes.
Uchiha Itachi met his little brother’s grip with wordless familiarity.
But just before they disappeared down the path, Sasuke’s gaze flickered one last time toward the girl still kneeling in the dirt.
He said nothing.
Just tugged his brother forward.
“Let’s go, Aniki. It’s boring here.”
Naruto watched him go.
No one spoke to her after that.
Not one kid offered to help her up.
Not one grown-up came over.
The laughter didn’t resume.
And the castle in the sandbox stayed crumbled.
Some of the parents began gathering their children. One picked up his son without a word and walked away. A mother gave Naruto a look that burned hotter than any fire, one that screamed, you shouldn’t exist.
In mere moments, the playground was empty.
The wind stirred a discarded paper cup near the swing set. Her hands trembled in her lap, scraped red.
She looked at them. At the blood. At the dirt.
Then, quietly, she got up.
Brushed off her shirt. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and walked to the swings where she sat down, gripping the cold metal chains so hard, her knuckles turned white.
A soft wind tugged at the uneven edges of her hair as small feet pushed against the wood chips, slow and steady. The chain creaked with each pass—forward, then back—the metal groans cutting through the silence.
She swung.
Because sitting still made the bad feelings louder.
And she didn’t want to hear them.
So she just kept going.
⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹
Two years later…
The Academy’s classroom windows rattled in their frames, thin paper screens fluttering with the spring wind. Beyond them, the trees in the courtyard had just started to bloom.
Inside, two dozen students sat cross-legged at their desks. Naruto lounged in the second row, hands splayed behind her head. Her sleeves were still too long.
Umino Iruka leaned casually against the edge of his desk, arms crossed as he surveyed the room.
“If the world were to end tomorrow…” he said, voice light but expectant, “who would you want to spend your last day with?”
Naruto blew out a puff of air, grinning wide. “C’mon, sensei. That’s stupid. Like that’s really gonna happen.”
Iruke sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It’s a hypothetical, Naruto. Just suppose the moon began to fall.”
“If the world was ending,” Akimichi Choji chimed in, “I hope it’s meat that falls instead of the moon!”
Laughter erupted around the room.
Naruto twisted in her seat, flashing a cheeky grin toward Sakura. “If the world was ending, I’d protect you, Sakura-chan!”
Sakura scoffed, turning her nose up with a huff. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t need protection from you, Naruto.” She sighed dreamily, casting a glance sideways toward the raven-haired boy beside her, half-snoozing into his palms.
“All right, all right—bring it back.” Iruka clapped his hands for attention. “Everyone, write down the name of the person you’d want to spend your last day with.”
He made his way down the rows, passing out blank sheets of paper.
Naruto stared at the one on her desk.
All around her, classmates were already scribbling away—whispers and giggles traded across desks, a few dramatic sighs about crushes and best friends. Sakura leaned over her page protectively with practiced grace. Ino was doodling hearts. Even Shikamaru, half-asleep as usual, had started writing without much fuss.
But Naruto just sat there.
She bit the inside of her cheek and looked out the window.
If the world ended tomorrow…
She stared at the blank page for a while longer. Then, without a word, she folded it.
Crisp edges, neat creases. A sharp nose, wide wings.
A paper airplane.
She held it up, aimed toward the window, and flicked her wrist.
It soared straight through the open pane, catching the wind with perfect lift.
A few heads turned.
One pair of onyx eyes tracked it longer than the rest as it glided into the sunlit sky.
“Tch. Dobe,” Sasuke muttered under his breath. There was no heat in it though, just quiet resignation, since this was the kind of nonsense that was expected from her by now. Without looking up again, he leaned back into his hand, bored as ever. Lazily, he picked up his pencil and started writing.
“Hey—Naruto!”
She sighed as Iruka’s voice cut across the room, sharp with exasperation.
“Don’t throw that out!“
Naruto slumped back in her chair with an easy grin. “What? It’s flying toward its destiny.”
“This is a writing assignment,” Iruka snapped, already rubbing his temple.
She crossed her arms and shrugged in reply. “What’s the point? I mean, there’s no way the world’s just gonna end tomorrow.”
“That’s not the point! It’s a hypothetical—”
“Exactly! Hypothetical. Which means made-up. Which means I can hypothetically do whatever I want, right?” She shot him a peace sign, teeth flashing.
Iruka groaned. “Why do I even try?”
Naruto just laughed, tipping back in her chair like she hadn’t a care in the world.
Outside the window, her paper airplane dipped, then rose again, caught on the breeze. It sailed above blooming cherry blossoms and roof tiles slick with afternoon sun. Higher and higher, untethered, unburdened, until the classroom and its noise faded entirely.
Above the village, the world was quieter.
The little paper plane spun once, twice, then steadied. Its nose tilted upward, aimed not at the sun, but toward the moon—pale and watching in the daytime sky.
It would fall eventually, flutter back to earth like everything else, forgotten, like so many things before it.
But for that single breath of a moment—it didn’t.
It flew like it had somewhere to go.
Like it had someone waiting for it on the other side of the sky.
And then—
BZZZZZT.
A phone vibrated violently.
Heads turned. Irritated glances swept the dark rows. A girl in the front row made a strangled noise of despair.
The culprit?
Dead center, middle row. Feet kicked up on the seat in front of him. White hair like a beacon and black sunglasses worn indoors, despite the dim theater lighting.
On-screen, the title card swelled across the frame in bold crimson ink:
NARUTO: THE LAST.
A flute sang softly behind it. Harp strings tugged delicately at something old and wistful. The opening melody shimmered—gentle, dreamy, full of longing—
BZZZZZT.
“Bro,” someone hissed from the back, full of accusation and agony.
Gojo Satoru didn’t flinch.
He just sighed and drew his phone out with one hand.
The screen lit up in full brightness like a miniature sun, its blast of light lighting up five rows behind him. At least a dozen people were left physically recoiling in the haze. A girl shielded her eyes. Someone swore. A popcorn kernel fell, slow and tragic, from a startled hand.
Gojo clicked his tongue. “Some people,” he whispered gravely, “have no respect for cinema.”
And then—without shame, without pause—he answered the call.
“What?” he snapped. “I’m grieving.”
“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” came Nanami Kento’s voice. His tone was dry, unimpressed, and unmistakably fed-up. “There’s an active cursed site. Shoko’s on-site and Ijichi’s halfway through a nervous breakdown. Where are you?”
“Watching the absolute worst romantic decision in modern fiction history.”
A pause.
“Again? Seriously?”
“I raised my expectations,” Gojo said, voice trembling with passion, “and it hurt me.”
Nanami sighed.
“I mean—” Gojo continued, volume rising. His eyes flicked down to the screen where Uchiha Sasuke was currently brooding by a sunset like he hadn’t spent three arcs actively trying to murder half the cast. “—she kissed Sasuke in the end.”
Several groans chorused around the room.
“Sasuke. Sasuke. The human fire hazard. The emo war criminal with exactly one emotional setting and it’s ‘murder.’ After everything—after the pain—the trauma—the Chidori-inflicted trauma—she still picks the emotionally constipated stab-happy Uchiha?!”
A woman near the front whispered, “Is he okay?”
“No,” her boyfriend murmured. “Obviously not.”
“Gojo—” came Nanami’s voice again, painfully strained.
“THAT TRASH LITERALLY TRIED TO KILL HER. MULTIPLE TIMES.”
A teenage girl two seats down audibly gasped—like Gojo had just insulted her bloodline, her village, and her entire fanfiction archive all at once.
She spun in her seat with whiplash speed. “I know you didn’t just say that about Sasuke.”
Gojo blinked. He pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, squinting at her as if she was a rare, dangeroud species of delusion. “Oh, I absolutely did.”
“Sasuke is misunderstood!” she declared, voice trembling with righteous fanfiction-fueled fury.
“He’s a walking red flag in ninja sandals,” Gojo shot back. “Misunderstood doesn’t mean you get to commit high-level treason and still get the girl.”
The girl sat up straighter, adjusting her oversized Akatsuki hoodie like it was armor. “He’s a survivor. He’s allowed to have trauma—”
“He causes trauma,” he deadpanned.
“You don’t get it!” the girl shouted. “The movie’s a metaphor! It’s about redemption! About how love can heal!”
“It’s about bad decision-making and lowered romantic standards,” Gojo refuted.
“What?! How can you say that!?” she shrieked, eyes blazing. “Naruto and Sasuke are soulmates. Period.”
Gojo threw both hands dramatically into the air. “Yeah? Then maybe one of them should’ve acted like it before the final five minutes!”
He jabbed a finger at the screen, where Naruto and Sasuke were now eating ramen in what looked suspiciously like pre-conflict bliss. “You know what this really is? Stockholm Syndrome. With sparkles. And bad narrative pacing.”
Gasps. Several rows of bystanders fully turned to watch now. Someone in the back whispered, “This is better than the movie.”
“TAKE THAT BACK!“
“NOT UNLESS SASUKE TAKES BACK SEVERAL ATTEMPTED HOMICIDES!”
“I—You—URGH—“ The girl shot to her feet, glaring down at him. “You’re just too old to get it!”
Gojo clutched his chest, feeling the blow land hard. “YOU TAKE THAT BACK.”
“YOU’RE LIKE TWENTY-FIVE OR SOMETHING!”
“NINETEEN!” Gojo screamed with the raw intensity of a man watching his youth die in real time. “I AM NINETEEN! AND FULL OF VALID OPINIONS!”
More popcorn was spilled. A girl in the back was shaking with laughter.
On the other end of the call, Nanami had gone full deadpan. “You’re arguing with a child,” he said flatly. “Please stop.”
“I’m fighting for literary integrity,” Gojo scoffed into the phone.
Nanami sighed so hard it sounded like static.
Gojo, undeterred, pointed one last dramatic finger at the girl like they were sworn rivals destined to meet again. “This isn’t over,” he declared. Then he stomped down the aisle, coat flaring behind him.
The girl cupped her hands and shouted after him, “READ THE NOVELIZATION! YOU DON’T KNOW THE CONTEXT!”
Gojo didn’t look back.
The theater door swung shut behind him with a clang, leaving behind only stunned silence, spilled popcorn, and a girl still clutching her Akatsuki hoodie, still trembling with fury.
“…He’s so wrong,” she muttered darkly.
“Yeah,” her friend whispered beside her, eyes still wide. “But he was kinda…”
They stared at each other. Their cheeks reddened in tandem.
“Shut up,” the first girl hissed.
But she didn’t exactly disagree.
⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹
On the other end of the call, Nanami sighed. Deep. Full-bodied. The kind of sigh that started somewhere behind the lungs and ended somewhere near existential collapse.
“…If you hate it so much,” he muttered, staring blankly at the cracked wall in front of him, “why are you watching it for the third time this week?”
Gojo’s voice crackled through the receiver, cheerful and deeply unrepentant. “Because I’m loyal, Nanamin. Something Sasuke clearly isn’t.”
Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. Just behind him, Yaga paced back and forth like a thunderstorm given human form—broad-shouldered, glowering, and very obviously one bad update away from snapping.
The blonde exhaled through his teeth. “Yeah? Try being a little more loyal to your alma mater,” he said, sharper now. “You may have graduated, but Yaga still needs you. And you’ve got five minutes tops to get here before he detonates. Metaphorically or otherwise.”
There was a pause. Just long enough for Nanami to imagine—correctly—that Gojo was smirking like the world’s most insufferable gremlin.
“Okay, but real quick,” Gojo said suddenly—voice brightening with the same dangerous enthusiasm that usually preceded disaster, “do you think Naruto actually loved Sasuke, or was it trauma bonding with a side of abandonment issues?”
There was no dignified answer to that.
So Nanami didn’t give one.
Without ceremony, without hesitation, and with a single, well-practiced motion—he hung up.
CLICK.
Nanami sighed and stuffed his phone deep—very deep—into the inner lining of his uniform, as though the further it was from his body, the less likely Gojo’s nonsense could infect him through osmosis.
He walked across the dimly lit theater toward the front, the flickering light of the movie still rolling on the oversized screen—soft flutes, wistful harp strings, something about longing.
The film’s title still burned faintly in the corner:
NARUTO: THE LAST.
Nanami resisted the urge to sigh again.
Rows of empty seats gave way to a scattered cluster of unconscious teens slumped across the front section—sprawled like dropped marionettes, heads lolled, limbs loose. A half-empty popcorn tub had toppled onto one of them. Another still clutched a light-up keychain in their limp hand.
Ijichi crouched near the center of the group, sleeves pushed back, a small health monitor blinking faintly in his palm as he murmured readings into his recorder. His brow furrowed deeper with each result.
Beside him, Shoko knelt with practiced ease, moving from one body to the next with detached efficiency. Her med bag lay open at her side—vials, tools, and a tangle of diagnostic seals stacked inside in an organized chaos only she understood. With one gloved hand, she checked radial pulses along a wrist; with the other, she pressed her penlight beneath an unresponsive eyelid.
“Non-reactive,” she muttered to herself, an unlit cigarette bobbling at the corner of her mouth.
Yaga paced nearby, arms crossed. His presence filled the room with a kind of silent pressure.
“Did you place the veil?” he asked, turning as Nanami approached.
“I did,” Nanami assured him. “Mid-grade layered. Should hold back civilians and suppress the ambient cursed energy.” He moved closer, gaze sweeping the unconscious group with growing unease. “How are they?”
“They’re… stable,” Ijichi said, though his voice wavered with uncertainty. Almost immediately, he glanced at Shoko like he needed backup.
Shoko didn’t meet his gaze, just tugged another student’s sleeve back to check for external bruising—nothing. Her brow furrowed slightly as she repositioned her flashlight and lifted the boy’s eyelid.
“Breathing’s steady across the board. Heart rates are all elevated, but not like a stress response—almost like… some overstimulated REM state, but with none of the typical sleep markers,” she said, voice low and certain.
She flicked her light off and sat back on her heels, finally glancing up at Nanami with a tired, unimpressed look. “And their pupils aren’t responsive at all. Fixed. Dilated. Extremely so.”
Her gaze swept over the group again. One of them was muttering faintly, lips twitching like they were mid-conversation in a dream.
“No external trauma. No cursed wounds. No sign of technique interference on the body,” Shoko went on, rolling her shoulders. “My technique won’t work on them because there’s nothing to fix. It’s all neurological. ”
Nanami scanned them with a deepening frown.
Yaga turned toward him, eyebrow raised. “What’s Gojo’s status?”
“…Allegedly,” he said with deadpan finality, “he is en route.”
Yaga’s brow lifted even higher. “Allegedly?”
Nanami tugged at his cuffs with visible irritation. “Ten minutes would be the optimistic estimate. Reality says he’s already detoured twice—once to pick a fight with a middle schooler over anime discourse, and another for that crepe cart in the lobby.”
Shoko snorted under her breath, finally standing and dusting off her knees. “Bold of you to assume it’ll only be two detours.”
Ijichi, still crouched, sighed softly like he agreed with all of it but lacked the will to say so.
A vein pulsed in Yaga’s forehead.
Then—
BANG.
The emergency exit at the far end of the theater burst open with all the subtlety of a minor explosion. A gust of cold wind swept in with it, carrying the smell of powdered sugar and strawberry syrup.
And there he was.
Gojo Satoru.
Dramatically backlit by the glowing red EXIT sign—a half-eaten crepe in one hand and the world’s most obnoxious sunglasses glinting under the flickering projector light.
Nanami stared for one long, incredulous beat.
“…That was quick,” he said dryly.
Gojo took a leisurely bite of his crepe. “Mmm. Yeah. I was in Sector A. They’re still letting people watch screenings on that side—y’know, to keep the business running.” He gestured vaguely with the crepe. “I figured since I was already here, might as well see the intro again. For research purposes.”
Yaga took a breath. Possibly for the last time.
“Gojo—”
“Also,” Gojo added brightly, “I’m now banned from Sector A. Something about ‘disrupting the cinematic experience’ and ‘making a child cry.’ But in my defense, she started it.”
Nanami didn’t dignify that with a glance. “You’re a public menace.”
Gojo beamed, mouth full of whipped cream as he finished off the last of his dessert. “A well-dressed public menace.”
“Did you at least bring the cursed energy detector, senpai?” Ijichi asked, faintly exasperated.
Gojo pulled it from his coat pocket and tossed it to him underhanded, still chewing. “See? I’m so responsible.”
Yaga closed his eyes.
“Soooo,” Gojo drawled, rocking back on his heels as he peered down at the nearest unconscious kid. He poked the edge of a dropped plushie with the toe of his shoe. “Are they having nightmares about that kiss scene too?”
Nanami’s eye twitched. “If you say one more word about that movie, I will personally shove you through the projector screen.”
“Please do,” Shoko pleaded, half-jokingly. “It might actually help.”
Gojo grinned. Then nudged his sunglasses down with one finger. His eyes—normally hidden—gleamed with sudden, quiet focus over the rim of his lenses.
He crouched beside one of the teens, all lazy posture and long limbs, but his hands moved with precision. Two fingers to the neck as he checked their pulse.
“So what’s the diagnosis, doc?” Gojo asked.
Shoko’s lips thinned, brushing hair behind one ear as she stepped closer. “They’re not cursed. No marks, no wounds. No technique affecting the body, at least not physically.” Her voice dropped a note. “If I were any regular doctor, I’d call it right now.”
Nanami’s jaw tightened. “You mean…?”
“Dead zones on every cognitive test I ran.” Shoko’s mouth flattened. “They’re not brain-dead, but they might as well be. Everything’s functioning—heart, lungs— but upstairs?” She tapped her temple. “Nothing. It’s like the mind’s been unplugged.”
Gojo leaned in, brushing back the fringe of hair to lift one eyelid. The eye beneath was fully rolled back, twitching faintly in place.
He whistled low. “Well. That’s not creepy at all.”
Behind him, Shoko met Nanami’s gaze, her tone quieter now.“What the hell happened here?”
“We found them like that. Theater owner said they all came in for a private screening this afternoon. Lights flickered ten minutes in. No screams, no noise. He thought they fell asleep. After the screening, they just never woke up,” Nanami paused, gesturing toward the teens. “Or, rather, they won’t wake up. And that’s when we got the call.”
Gojo pulled back a little, his palm hovering above the teen’s chest now—feeling for the drift and static of cursed energy.
“Huh. Funky.”
Yaga stepped closer. “Define funky.”
“Like… a Wifi signal with half a bar.” Gojo held up his hand, fingers flexing as if feeling for something in the air. “They’re still connected. Just… buffering.”
Yaga’s gaze darkened. “You think they’ve been displaced?”
“Displaced, embedded—maybe both.” Gojo rose to his full height, brushing nonexistent dust from his knees. His eyes drifted toward the projection booth at the back of the theater room. “Something’s got them halfway between.”
Ijichi’s brow furrowed. “Between what?”
Gojo’s mouth twitched, just enough to flash teeth. “That,” he said lightly, eyes going sharp, “is what we’re gonna find out.”
Yaga caught the shift in his tone. “What are you thinking? Your eyes pick up something we missed?”
Gojo exhaled slowly, hands resting on his hips. His gaze flicked from the frozen movie screen—still locked on the washed-out, red-tinted credit roll—back down to the unconscious teens scattered like broken dolls across the floor.
“…I’m thinking this movie sucks more than I thought.”
Shoko snorted, almost despite herself.
“Well,” he drawled, flashing Shoko a lazy grin, “you’ve got this handled.”
Shoko just rolled her eyes and went back to checking another student’s vitals.
“Gonna do a little perimeter sweep,” Gojo announced suddenly, already turning away. “Maybe interrogate the popcorn machine. Real fieldwork.”
Nanami’s voice followed him, dry as ever. “Just don’t make it worse.
“No promises~” Gojo sang over his shoulder.
He made his way up the theater stairs two steps at a time, footsteps quiet against the old carpet.
The carpet underfoot was sticky in places, littered with spilled snacks and trampled flyers for upcoming releases. Empty soda cups tipped sideways along the aisles. A forgotten glowstick rolled under the edge of a seat.
Evidence of panic, maybe, but no real signs of struggle. No blood. No broken seats. No scuff marks. Just silence and stale butter.
Gojo slowed as he reached the top landing, letting his gaze drift toward the mounted security camera in the far corner—one lens covering the exit, another angled down at the front rows.
The camera’s little standby light flickered dim red.
Probably caught everything. Probably useless anyway, if this was a curse-type domain.
His Six Eyes prickled faintly as he climbed the last short flight of stairs toward the projection booth.
The door to the projection room stood half-ajar, hanging crooked on its hinge like it had been kicked open and never fixed.
He pushed it the rest of the way with his fingertips.
Inside, the faint mechanical hum of the still-running projector filled the air, low and steady—like a purr with too many teeth.
He let out a low whistle, eyes scanning the rows of outdated equipment stacked against the walls: dusty reels, scratched film canisters, exposed cables like frayed nerves. But his gaze didn’t linger long.
Because something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The cursed energy in this room didn’t just linger. It wasn’t smeared across the room like most cursed sites. Nor was it residual.
No—the cursed energy was concentrated.
His gaze slid toward the projector.
He slipped his sunglasses off and let them hang on his collar. Immediately, the world shifted—colors bleeding brighter, cursed energy patterns turning fractal and sharp.
There it was.
Singular.
Alive.
The projector’s light wasn’t just illuminating the screen—it was pouring cursed energy through it like a siphon. And inside the lens was a seal. Faint. Circular. Moving ever so slightly, like a ripple across water.
Gojo crouched down slowly, tilting his head to the side. “Well, well,” he murmured. “You’re not just cursed. You’re anchored. That’s not a normal domain.”
The door to the projection booth creaked open behind him.
Gojo raised his eyes idly, one hand still propped on his bent knee. “If this is another lecture about professionalism, I’m busy.”
“Not in the mood,” Nanami said flatly, stepping in first. His tie was already loosened, jacket tugged sharply back on his shoulders.
Shoko followed right after, snapping her lighter closed as she pocketed her cigarette case. “This room sucks,” she muttered, sweeping her gaze around the dusty equipment with a practiced medic’s eye.
Ijichi appeared next, hesitating awkwardly at the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he needed permission to enter.
And Yaga ducked inside last, the door frame creaking as he squared his shoulders beneath it. His presence filled what little space remained, all broad stance and bad mood.
“Report,” Yaga rumbled.
“There’s no evidence of a struggle. No cursed user nearby. No cursed spirits, either. And yet…” Gojo stayed crouched, tipping his head toward the projector with a casual wave.
He pointed to the lens.
“That thing isn’t just running a movie. Look closer. There’s a seal in the glass. It’s actively channeling cursed energy. It’s not just cursed—it’s a gateway.”
Ijichi visibly paled. “A gateway to where?”
Gojo shrugged. “Best guess? They’re stuck in some kind of pocket domain. Consciousness displaced, but still tethered by cursed energy.”
“This much output with no caster on-site?” Shoko questioned, crouching low beside the equipment. “That’s some advanced technique work.”
“This projector doesn’t need a caster—anymore at least. The object is the domain. Self-sustaining. Self-feeding.”
Nanami crossed his arms. “So, like Sukuna’s fingers?”
Gojo shook his head. “No.” He turned, glancing back through the window at the theater seats—at the unconscious teens sprawled below. “Sukuna’s fingers are inert unless eaten. This thing is active.”
Shoko straightened with a tired breath of realization. “So those kids didn’t just pass out. They were pulled into something.”
“Exactly,” Gojo said. “Whatever’s on the other side—it’s designed to trap. And this one’s clever. There’s no forced entry. It waits for you to engage.”
Shoko’s eyes narrowed. “A visual trigger.”
Gojo tapped his temple. “Right into the brain. Which explains the symptoms. From the outside, they look brain-dead. But from the inside…” He shrugged. “They’re just stuck. Somewhere else.”
Yaga—who’d been standing silent by the door until now—stepped forward. His gaze darkened as it settled on the projector. “Then we shut it down. Cut the feed.”
Gojo moved quickly, stepping into Yaga’s path. “I wouldn’t.”
Yaga raised a brow at him. “And why the hell not?”
Gojo gestured toward the cracked, unresponsive switchboard. “Controls are fried. Totally unresponsive. If you cut the power mid-signal…” He tilted his head toward the theater below, where the kids lay. “Well. I don’t need to spell out what happens to their minds.”
A heavy silence settled.
Ijichi swallowed. “Then… how do we pull them out?”
Gojo’s lips curled into a slow, knowing grin. “We send someone in.”
Everyone stared at him.
“And by someone,” Gojo clarified with faux modesty, “I mean me. Duh.”
“No,” Yaga said flatly. “Absolutely not. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
Gojo turned to him, already rolling his shoulders. “C’mon. Someone has to. Besides…” He smirked. “I know this story better than any of you.”
“That’s not a compliment,” Shoko chimed in dryly.
Nanami tensed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious when I’m right.” Gojo already sounded half distracted, surveying the room for the best point of contact. “Think about it. It needs visual engagement—a mental link with the projection. If this domain pulls people in through narrative immersion…”
Shoko caught on quickly. “Then someone who can resist domain manipulation—someone who can control their perception—might be able to go in and come back.”
“Bingo.” Gojo pointed at himself with both thumbs. “Six Eyes, baby. If anyone can see through the story, it’s me.”
Nanami’s frown deepened. “We don’t know what’s on the other side.”
Gojo’s grin stretched wide, eyes practically sparkling. “That’s exactly what makes it fun,” he said, voice rising with manic glee. “Do you understand what this means, Nanamin? I’ve been spiritually preparing for this moment since I was eight. This isn’t a cursed object—this is a portal to greatness.”
He jabbed a finger toward the projector like it was the gates of heaven.
“I’m about to isekai into Naruto. Peak cinema. Peak storytelling. Peak—”
Yaga’s expression was stone. “‘Peak cinema’ isn’t the goal here.”
“Right, right. Heroic self-sacrifice, noble intentions, I’ve seen the anime.” Gojo said, cracking his knuckles. “If I can anchor myself with a cursed energy tether, you should be able to monitor my signals from out here. Worst case? You drag my sorry ass back before my brain turns into soup.”
Shoko rolled her eyes. “That’s not how any of this works.”
“It might be today,” Gojo chirped. Then, after a beat, the edge of his grin softened. “If those kids are stuck in there… someone’s gotta go in.”
He glanced at the projector—at the faint pulse of its glow, steady and inviting like a heartbeat.
“And let’s be honest,” he added, with mock solemnity, “I’m the only one here who’s emotionally prepared for a Naruto crossover. I’ve studied the lore. I’ve endured the filler. I am prepared.”
Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cried when she said ‘Dattebayo’ in the trailer.”
“It was poetic, Nanamin.”
“She was ordering ramen.”
“It was narrative closure!” Gojo whipped around, indignant. “And don’t act like you don’t know! You only know this anyways because you watched it with me on Wednesday.”
A beat.
Shoko’s head turned slowly. Her gaze landed on Nanami.
Nanami… said nothing.
Shoko’s eyes narrowed. “…You watched it?”
Nanami looked away, throat clearing. “…The animation was decent.”
Gojo preened like he’d won a court case. “See? Emotional investment. We’re all compromised.”
He approached the projector, its light flickering now—brighter, sharper. It pulsed like it was aware of him. Waiting. He stopped just shy of the beam, sunglasses still hanging from his collar, hair catching the glow like starlight.
“All right.” He rolled his shoulders loose. “If I get stuck in there with filler arcs, tell my fan club I died heroically.”
“What fan club?” Shoko muttered under her breath.
He pretended not to hear her. “‘Sides, if anyone’s gonna LARP their way through a cursed anime movie, it’s me.”
He took a grand, unnecessary step forward, planting one foot in the wash of projector light as if it was a spotlight. “This is my moment. My narrative arc. My—”
The cursed energy surged.
Gojo didn’t finish.
CRACKLE.
The seal in the lens spun violently. Light flared.
His body dropped mid-step like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He hit the floor, eyes rolled back, breath seizing.
Ijichi let out a noise that was equal parts horror and despair. “Senpai—?!”
Shoko dropped to her knees beside him immediately, two fingers moving to check his pulse. “Stable,” she muttered. “Same vitals as the others. Same pattern.”
Yaga swore under his breath, already moving for the comm. “We’re escalating this. Get emergency relay measures set up now.”
Ijichi scrambled to his feet, fumbling with his equipment bag. “I’ll grab the external monitors from downstairs,” he said quickly, already halfway to the door.
Yaga followed, voice clipped with urgency. “Bring the stabilizers too. And the long-range cursed signal relay—we’ll need full field coverage if this thing gets worse.”
Ijichi bobbed his head in a frantic nod. “Yes, sensei!”
The door to the projection booth swung shut behind them, their retreating footsteps echoing down the theater stairwell as they hurried back toward the main floor.
Shoko glanced grimly toward the flickering projector. “Congratulations,” she said flatly, reaching for her medical kit. “We have a fifth victim.”
Nanami sighed, already crouched beside Gojo’s body. He gave him a long look, then muttered, “Idiot,” and heaved him up with ease.
He dragged a nearby folding chair over with his foot and eased Gojo into it. It creaked under the weight, but held.
Gojo slumped bonelessly, head tipped to one side, mouth slightly parted like he was snoring through the best nap of his life.
Nanami adjusted Gojo’s collar like shoving down a particularly annoying blanket. Then he retrieved the fallen sunglasses, setting them neatly in Gojo’s lap.
“Theatrics,” he muttered, “even in unconsciousness.”
Shoko didn’t look up. “At least he’s consistent.”
The projector hummed louder.
FWOOOM.
The projector whirred violently back to life with a sudden kick, and the screen lit up—bright, golden, and full of motion.
“Woah… That’s so cool.”
A bright, cheery voice rang out through the theater’s speakers.
On-screen, the camera panned to a small red haired girl, whisker marks stamped on chubby cheeks, smiling brilliantly at a pink-haired classmate in a sandbox.
“I… think he’s in,” Shoko murmured, eyes narrowed on her scanner.
Nanami turned to face the glowing screen. His expression didn’t change, but his jaw tensed slightly. “God help that world,” he muttered under his breath.
⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹
Gojo’s eyes blinked open.
The first thing he noticed was water—still, reflective, endless. A perfect mirror stretching beneath his feet. He stood atop its surface like it was glass, robes pooling like silk around his ankles.
Wait.
Robes?
He squinted down.
Robes.
Long, billowy, aggressively majestic robes. Ivory white with enough silver embroidery to bankrupt three small kingdoms. The sleeves alone were so wide, they could double as sails.
“Okay…” Gojo muttered, tugging experimentally at the fabric.
The next thing he noticed was the silence.
It wasn’t just quiet. It was paused. Heavy. Artificial. Like the whole scene was waiting for a director’s cue.
And then—three faces.
Frozen mid-stare. All of them turned toward him, unmoving. Unblinking. Hostile.
The man in the middle? Unmistakable.
Sharp features. Pale eyes like lit moons. That god-tier resting disapproval face.
Hyuuga Hiashi.
His brain lagged for a full two seconds.
Then:
“Oh wow,” Gojo muttered. “You look like you yell at children for fun. 100 yen says you’re about to monologue at me about bloodlines and honor.”
Silence.
Literal, screen-freeze silence.
Gojo waved a hand at him. No response. Not even a blink. The man stayed mid-glare like he was buffering.
“…Okay. Cool. So we’re frozen.”
Gojo turned a slow, suspicious circle, only now clocking the water’s reflection. His own face stared back at him—still white-haired, still blue-eyed, still criminally handsome. But now draped in full villain-chic cosplay.
He frowned. Tugged at the fabric again. Then glanced back at the frozen figures ahead.
Hiashi Hyuuga, center stage. Rigid. Mid-glare. The man’s entire energy screamed ‘I disown people for sport.’
Gojo squinted at him.
Then at the other two figures flanking him. Both distinctively Hyuuga.
Then back at himself.
Then back at Hiashi.
…Wait.
Wait.
His gaze drifted upward. Past Hiashi. Past the water.
To the pale, looming shape in the sky above them.
“Oh,” Gojo said aloud.
The moon.
Huge.
Too close.
Too bright.
“Ohh…”
He stared at Hiashi, connecting dots with dawning realization.
He glanced over his shoulder, hoping that maybe, there was someone else standing behind him. No such luck.
“Well,” he muttered, tugging dramatically at the collar of his celestial bathrobe, “at least I’m a hot villain.”