Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Monologue & The Sleeping Pretender
Ah.
The sound escaped Obito's lips, a low, pained exhalation that was more vibration than voice. He lay perfectly still on the infirmary bed, staring at the sterile white ceiling tiles, and tried to corral his scattered thoughts. His head throbbed with a deep, insistent ache, a bass drum of pain behind his eyes. He realized the truth now: the fragmented, stop-start abuse of the Sharingan during that marathon brawl hadn't been free. The price was paid in concentrated agony and a mental fatigue that felt like his brain had been put through a blender. It literally hurt like crazy.
He took a series of slow, deliberate breaths, trying to calm the frantic rabbit-pace of his heart. Each inhalation was a reminder of the fight—the impacts, the strain, the terror. But despite the pain, a small, fierce smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A somewhat happy smile.
—I did it. I actually managed to land hits. Good ones. Against her. It was a draw, technically, but… I held my own. I fought back. I didn't just get dismantled.—
At this moment, amidst the physical wreckage, there was a spark of pure, undiluted satisfaction in his heart. Obito, his mind a tenderized bruise, found he could ignore the throbbing when he replayed those moments—slipping past her guard, the perfect geometry of a copied strike landing on her ribs, the way she'd stumbled. If only the Sharingan hadn't crapped out at the critical moment, if his cursed energy hadn't hit empty… he could have finished it.
A frustrated grunt rumbled in his chest. But he quickly shook his head, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain cascading through his skull. He forced himself to stop.
—No. That's pointless. Can't change it. Dwelling on 'if only' is a waste of time. The takeaway is progress. I'm better. Stronger.—
He assessed his body. It felt… hot. Not the sharp, localized pain of broken bones (those were mostly knitted, thanks to Shoko), but a deep, systemic warmth, like a low-grade fever had settled into his marrow. His throat didn't hurt, so it wasn't an infection. A theory formed.
—Reversed Cursed Technique side effect? Accelerated cellular regeneration generating excess metabolic heat? Makes sense. My body's basically in overdrive repair mode.—
He pondered for another minute but found no alarming symptoms. Just this pervasive, sleepy warmth. It was almost pleasant, in a deeply exhausted way.
Decision made, he decided to get up. He tried to engage his back muscles, to lever himself into a sitting position. A symphony of pops and cracks echoed in the quiet room—his spine, his shoulders, joints protesting the movement after hours of forced stillness. He winced, surprised by the cacophony his own body produced.
He looked around. The infirmary was empty. Doctor Shoko was nowhere to be seen. He had no real relationship with her beyond being a recurring patient, a walking billboard for poor life choices, so her absence wasn't surprising.
—Did she just leave us here? Professional, but cold. Typical.—
He shrugged, the motion stiff. First order of business: verticality. Then, planning.
As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cool linoleum floor, he spotted a neat pile of folded clothes on a nearby chair. His clothes. Clean, mended, smelling faintly of detergent. A small, unexpected kindness. He moved towards them, each step careful, testing his balance.
But as he reached for the shirt, another sound penetrated his focus. Not from outside. From within the room.
Breathing.
Steady, deep, rhythmic. Not his own. It was coming from the other side of a pale green privacy curtain that divided the infirmary.
Curiosity, that old killer, pricked at him. He finished pulling on his pants, then, moving with the exaggerated quiet of someone who knows they shouldn't, he approached the curtain. His hand hovered for a second before he gently pulled the fabric aside. It rustled softly. Shhh-click.
There she was.
Maki Zenin. Asleep. Or so it appeared. She was lying flat on her back on the white bed, a thin sheet pulled up to her chest. Her face, usually a mask of fierce intensity, was relaxed in slumber, though the bruises and swelling from their fight painted a violent story across her features. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The angry set of her jaw was gone, replaced by a slackness that made her look younger, almost vulnerable.
Obito took an involuntary step back, his breath catching. But he didn't flee. He stood there, just beyond the curtain, and watched her for a long moment, confirming she was truly out. Then, that same small, triumphant smile returned.
—Heh. Still sleeping. Out cold.—
Maki was, in fact, very much awake.
She had been for some time. The reversed cursed technique had worked on her with terrifying efficiency; without cursed energy to create interference, Shoko's healing had been direct, brutal, and fast. She'd been physically capable of getting up and walking out hours ago.
But she didn't want to. She just wanted to lie there. To exist in a state of nullity, to let the echoes of the fight fade without new stimuli. And yes, she'd known Obito was in the other bed. Her senses, honed to a supernatural sharpness, had picked up the sound of his breathing, the slight shift of his weight on the mattress, the moment he'd slipped into true unconsciousness. She'd lain there, listening to him sleep.
She hadn't attacked. She wasn't that far gone. Attacking an unconscious opponent, especially after the cathartic violence they'd just shared, felt… cheap. Degrading. Her anger, while still a live coal in her gut, had banked into something quieter, colder. She'd decided the rematch would happen on her feet, not while he was defenseless.
So she'd feigned sleep. A strategic retreat into stillness.
She'd heard him stir, heard the cracks and groans as he moved. She'd listened to him shuffle to his clothes, the soft shiff of fabric as he dressed. She didn't care. Her eyes were closed, her breathing artificially even. She was practicing a profound, angry calm.
Then came the footsteps. Hesitant, approaching her curtain. The sound of the rings sliding on the rod. Shhh-click.
She braced internally. What would he do? Gloat? Sneer?
She heard his voice, a low, almost whispered curse.
"Damn it."
Of course. She'd expected something like that. That bastard.
But then, his tone changed. It lost its edge, becoming… contemplative.
"I never expected to be able to hit you at all. You're incredibly strong."
Her mind stuttered. A compliment? While he thought she was unconscious? Was this some pathetic attempt at post-fight diplomacy? To soothe her so she'd hate him less? It wouldn't work. She hated the very sound of his voice. Yet… she kept listening. Because he didn't stop.
"I must say… I really feel disgusted by what happened to you. Even I would hate the person who did such things if I were in your place. Truly."
She and her internal monologue fell completely silent. The anger paused, replaced by a cold, analytical confusion.
—Why is he talking about it in the third person? As if it was someone else? Is he insane? Does he have some split personality? Or… is he telling the truth? Does he genuinely think he's someone new?—
She decided to let him dig his own grave. Keep listening.
She heard the faint scrape of chair legs on linoleum. He was moving one of the infirmary chairs. Then the soft groan of its frame as he settled his weight into it, placing it right beside her bed. He was sitting down. To talk. To her sleeping form.
He took a few fragmented breaths, as if marshaling his thoughts.
"I've been… feeling afraid for a long time," he began, his voice quieter now, more intimate. "I'm trying to find my footing in this world, but I'm too weak. It feels like… I can't really trust anyone."
She parsed the words clinically. He sounded… lost. Genuinely stressed. A psychological mess. She didn't move, didn't give any sign she'd heard, but her mind was a whirlwind of deduction.
He continued, oblivious to his audience of one very awake, very pissed-off listener.
"I feel… he never regretted doing that to you."
Her heart gave a single, hard, painful thump against her ribs. The memory was a physical blow: the darkness of that storage room, the smell of damp and decay, the skittering of insect legs, the raw terror. Her own small fists beating against unforgiving wood until they were bloody. Thump. Thump. Thump. And his laughter, filtering through the door, high and cruel.
At that moment, every muscle in her body tensed, screaming to launch her from the bed and finish what the forest fight started. She stopped herself by sheer force of will, a internal roar of NOT NOW.
And his next words froze her in place.
"But do you know something? He was doing that because he was forced. He wouldn't feel regret because, honestly, he was using you. But at the same time… he wasn't happy with what was happening. And at the same time, he didn't feel the need to apologize to you… because he would do it again."
He paused, as if wrestling with the contradiction he'd just voiced.
Then, his voice dropped, laced with a venom that sounded entirely self-directed. "He was… despicable. The worst kind of coward. But with that… it's good he's gone."
A long, heavy silence filled the space between them, broken only by the hum of the medical fridge in the corner. Bzzzzz…
"I know you didn't tell Mai what happened," he said finally, the words soft. "Maybe she started hating him because he started speaking badly of you two, so she didn't hit him at that time. So… I thank you."
Obito's mind flashed to the train, to Mai's cold, hate-filled gaze that lacked the specific, personal vitriol of her sister's. Maki had borne the full knowledge alone. She'd shielded her sister from the ultimate betrayal, not to spare Mai's feelings, but because she refused to extinguish one of the few fragile sparks of hope her sister had left. In a world that saw them as trash, even a false friend was a lifeline. Maki hadn't wanted Mai to know that lifeline was a noose.
Maki lay perfectly still, but a fine, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her. Obito, staring at the ceiling, missed it entirely. He finally let out a long, shuddering sigh. He felt a strange, unburdening relief. To say these things aloud, to condemn the ghost in his own skin, was cathartic. He wasn't apologizing. He refused to apologize for sins he hadn't committed. His path was strength, not penance.
But he had been carrying this weight—the knowledge of the original Obito's crimes, the paranoia, the loneliness, the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud or a tool. He needed to vent. And a comatose enemy was the perfect, non-judgmental confessional.
So, he talked. And talked.
He spoke of his fears of Naobito, his confusion about his place, his grim determination to survive. He rambled about cursed energy theory, muttered about the Zenin clan's politics, even voiced a grudging respect for her tenacity. It was a stream-of-consciousness purge, a three-hour monologue delivered to an audience he believed was utterly unconscious.
So thorough was his belief that when he finally heard a distant sound from the hallway—a door closing, footsteps—he glanced at Maki's peacefully 'sleeping' form and thought, with a dark internal chuckle:
—Of course she's still out. Took a Black Flash to the gut, plus a dozen copied strikes. She'll be down for days. Serves her right.—
He almost laughed aloud, but the sound of the infirmary door handle turning stopped him. He rose from the chair, the metal legs scraping softly (screee), and turned towards the door.
As it swung open, he was met by the sight of Satoru Gojo. The white-haired sorcerer leaned against the doorframe, his black blindfold in place, a bag of colorful candies dangling from one hand. His mouth was set in its usual, infuriatingly childish smile.
---
Gojo was feeling a pleasant, post-scolding glow. He'd just endured a truly magnificent dressing-down from Principal Yaga over the 'minor landscaping issue' in the training forest. His explanation—"They were just playing a very enthusiastic game of tag, sir!"—had not been well received. Yaga's face had turned a fascinating shade of purple usually reserved for overripe eggplants.
"Why," Yaga had gritted out, veins bulging on his forehead, "do you persist in this… this theatrical negligence?"
Gojo had merely smiled wider. He didn't feel negligent. He felt like an avant-garde educator. Exceptional students required exceptional, explosive pedagogy.
"Exceptional talent requires an exceptional curriculum!" Gojo had chirped, undeterred. "I'm simply providing a holistic, immersive learning experience!"
This had prompted Yaga to order him out of the office before he did something he'd regret, like trying to strangle the un-strangleable. Gojo had left, whistling.
On his way to the infirmary, he'd checked the wall clock. Tick-tock. "Visiting hours!" he'd announced to the empty corridor, then vanished and reappeared holding a new, larger bag of sweets. He'd sensed Shoko wasn't in, which made his visit even better—no killjoy doctor to harsh his vibe.
When he pushed the infirmary door open, he saw Obito first. His Six Eyes, active behind the blindfold, immediately performed a scan. The boy's cursed energy… it was different. Cleaner. Denser. Tempered. The afterglow of a Black Flash was a beautiful, rare signature. A teacher's pride, fierce and genuine, swelled in Gojo's chest. It didn't matter that Obito was technically a Kyoto student. Labels were for clothes. Potential was universal.
The answer to any bureaucratic objection was a simple, mental nope.
---
Obito froze for a split second under the weight of that invisible, all-seeing gaze. It was like being briefly X-rayed by a playful god. He pushed the discomfort aside as Gojo bounded into the room, thrusting the bag of candies towards him with a flourish.
"It's wonderful to see your progress!" Gojo announced, his voice brimming with theatrical pride. "You've leveled up! Seriously! At this rate, you might even reach a fraction of my magnificence one day! Maybe!"
Obito managed a weak, polite smile. What followed was a whirlwind. For a solid thirty minutes, Gojo dissected the forest fight with the enthusiasm of a sports analyst and the technical depth of a cursed energy savant. He asked rapid-fire questions about Obito's split-second decisions, his cursed energy management during the copy switches, his mental state when the Black Flash triggered.
Obito, caught off guard but eager, answered as best he could. He even ventured his own questions back—about refining cursed energy flow, about the theoretical underpinnings of the Black Flash phenomenon, about how to better sustain the Sharingan's drain. It was the most direct, substantive conversation about jujutsu he'd ever had. Gojo, for all his madness, was a peerless teacher when he chose to be.
Finally, the candy bag significantly lighter, Obito made his excuses and left the infirmary, offering a stiff bow. "Thank you for your… insights, Gojo-sensei."
The door clicked shut behind him.
In the sudden quiet, Gojo's head swiveled towards the curtained bed. His smile didn't change, but it gained a knowing, mischievous edge.
"Why the silent treatment, hm?" he sang out, his voice lilting. "Could it be the fierce and mighty Maki Zenin has been struck with a sudden bout of shyness? After getting a little tune-up?"
He waited a beat.
A white infirmary pillow shot out from behind the green curtain like a missile. Gojo, deliberately letting his Infinity drop for the moment, took it square in the face with a soft poof.
He didn't flinch. He just grinned wider, pulling the pillow away. "Ooh, scary! Is the wounded warrior going to assault her dear, caring teacher?"
Maki shoved the curtain aside with a violent shhhhrrrp! She was sitting up now, glaring daggers at him, her face a mosaic of bruises and simmering fury. She took a deep, controlled breath that did nothing to cool her expression.
"Stop talking nonsense," she growled. Her voice was hoarse. "And why the hell were you here, chatting up that bastard for half an hour?"
She had heard every word. The monologue, the technical discussion. She'd lain there, a captive audience to her enemy's vulnerabilities and her teacher's approbation. The whole experience left her feeling scraped raw and deeply, personally annoyed.
She swung her legs out of bed, stood up (a bit stiffly, but with undeniable strength), and stalked over to where her own cleaned clothes were folded. She began pulling them on with sharp, angry movements.
Just as she reached the door, ready to storm out, Gojo's voice stopped her. It was different now. Less teasing, more… direct. He held out the bag of remaining candies.
"You grew," he said simply. "That fight, that anger… it taught you. I saw it. You weren't just swinging harder. You were thinking. Adapting. Using the environment. You got smarter, Maki."
She stopped, her hand on the doorframe. She didn't look back, but after a tense second, her hand shot out, snatched the candy bag from his grip, and then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her with a definitive BANG.
Gojo was left alone in the infirmary. He looked around the empty, antiseptic room, at the two rumpled beds, and let out a soft, amused sigh.
"Damn it, Shoko," he said to the vacant air, popping a final candy into his mouth. Crunch. "Why'd you have to be out? Would've been fun to tease you about your terrible bedside manner."
The room held no answer. Just the lingering scent of medicine, the faint sweetness of candy, and the heavy, unspoken words that hung between the spaces where two enemies had, for a few hours, shared nothing but silence and secrets.
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End of Chapter.
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I apologize for the delay in writing this chapter, but I needed a lot of thought about the words and style.
Anyway, I hope you are happy with what I wrote, my friends. It's a chapter, and I admit I'm trying to make you appreciate it.
The story is naturally slow, but that's because I'm trying to write serious and detailed things for you and make you enjoy it more.
I want to ask you if GoJo's speaking style is appropriate and suits his style in the anime and manga.
I really want you to give me reviews. I truly want this story to grow stronger with your help. With some great comments and insightful feedback, we will become heroes and lead this story to victory.