Morning came reluctantly.
Kyoto woke under a sky that refused to fully brighten, clouds hanging low and heavy like the city itself hadn't decided whether to forgive the night. News helicopters circled at a distance, barred from approaching the hospital by hastily erected curtains of cursed energy. Official statements spoke of a "localized cursed anomaly," but no one inside believed that lie.
Because lies didn't feel like this.
Yutsumi sat on the edge of the hospital bed, hands resting on his knees, staring at nothing.
He hadn't slept.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again—the way reality had listened to Maru's third eye, the way it had listened to him too. His cursed energy was quieter now, settled into a new configuration, like a muscle that had learned a movement it could never forget.
Yuka noticed everything.
She stood near the window, arms crossed, pretending to watch the city below. But every few seconds her reflection flicked back to him. Counting breaths. Checking posture. Making sure his shoulders were still rising.
"You're overthinking," she said without turning.
"I almost broke the city," Yutsumi replied.
"You saved it."
"That wasn't saving," he said softly. "That was… adjusting."
Yuka turned then, jaw tight. "Don't talk like that."
Tsurugi entered the room before the argument could sharpen.
He looked worse than either of them—dark circles under his eyes, coat stained with dried blood and rain. He'd spent the night in meetings that weren't called meetings, with people who didn't bother introducing themselves.
"They're moving Maru," he said.
Yuka stiffened. "Where?"
"Underground," Tsurugi replied. "Special containment. Not Jujutsu High. Not human jurisdiction either."
Yutsumi looked up sharply. "That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to," Tsurugi said. "Fear outranks logic."
As if summoned by the word, the room's cursed energy shifted.
Not flared.
Adjusted.
The door slid open.
Maru walked in.
He looked fine.
Too fine.
No bandages. No monitors. His posture was relaxed, his expression neutral in that unreadable way that always made people underestimate him.
Yuka's cursed energy surged instantly.
"Stop," she snapped. "That's not—"
"It's me," Maru said calmly.
Yutsumi froze.
Something was wrong.
Not in presence. Not in power.
In weight.
Maru had always felt heavy—like something dense pretending to be light. Now, he felt… hollow. Like a perfect replica missing a single, vital resistance.
Tsurugi stepped forward, hand resting on his sword. "You shouldn't be walking."
"I recovered faster than expected," Maru replied.
His eyes flicked briefly to Yutsumi.
Just for a fraction of a second too long.
Yutsumi stood.
"I synchronized your limiter," he said slowly. "You shouldn't be able to suppress your third eye this cleanly yet."
Maru smiled.
It didn't reach his eyes.
"That's because," he said, "you misunderstand how my species heals."
Yuka moved in front of Yutsumi without hesitation.
"Say one thing only Maru would know," she demanded.
Maru didn't hesitate. "You drink your tea too hot and regret it every time."
Yuka faltered.
That was true.
Too true.
Yutsumi's cursed technique stirred, not copying—but testing.
Adaptive Perfect Copy didn't search for techniques.
It searched for patterns.
And this pattern—
Was layered.
"You're wearing him," Yutsumi said quietly.
The air tightened.
Maru—or what looked like him—sighed.
"So perceptive," Cross said, his voice bleeding through Maru's tone like ink in water. "I was hoping to delay this realization."
Tsurugi drew his blade fully now. "Get out of his body."
Cross tilted his head. "This body is not harmed. It is… borrowed."
Yuka's hands shook. "Where is he?"
"Safe," Cross replied. "Contained. Sleeping."
"That's not safety," she snapped.
Cross's gaze softened slightly. "From a human perspective, no."
He turned fully toward Yutsumi.
"You fascinate me," he said. "Your adaptation did not replicate power. It replicated restraint. That is not instinctual. That is learned."
Yutsumi swallowed. "Get out."
"In time," Cross said. "I came to warn you."
"About what?" Tsurugi demanded.
Cross's expression darkened.
"The narrative is already forming," he said. "An alien weapon lost control. Humanity nearly paid the price. Trust is fracturing."
Yuka clenched her fists. "So you're just going to walk around in his skin and say 'oops'?"
"I am going to observe reactions," Cross corrected. "And prevent escalation."
Yutsumi stepped forward despite Yuka's grip tightening on his sleeve.
"You're lying," he said.
Cross raised an eyebrow.
"You're not here to prevent escalation," Yutsumi continued. "You're here to see which side breaks first."
For the first time, Cross looked impressed.
"Perhaps," he admitted.
A sudden pressure slammed into the room.
Not Cross.
Another presence.
A voice echoed from the hallway, sharp and absolute.
"Freeze."
The word hit like a hammer.
Yutsumi felt his muscles lock instantly.
Yuka gasped as her body seized mid-motion.
Even Tsurugi staggered, teeth grinding as he fought the command.
A man stepped into the doorway, eyes glowing faintly with cursed script.
Usami.
Jujutsu High's last-resort enforcer.
Cursed Speech, refined to surgical precision.
"Cross," Usami said calmly. "You're trespassing."
Cross looked at him with open curiosity. "Ah. So this is how humans weaponize language."
Usami's gaze flicked briefly to Yutsumi.
Something like concern passed through it.
"Release them," he ordered.
Cross complied.
Instantly.
The pressure vanished.
Yuka nearly fell, catching herself against Yutsumi, who remained standing only through stubbornness.
"This is escalating faster than anticipated," Cross said. "I will withdraw—for now."
Tsurugi growled. "You don't get to decide that."
Cross smiled faintly.
"I already have."
Maru's body shimmered.
For a moment, Cross stood apart—his true form barely visible, tall and indistinct, eyes like fractured stars.
Then he was gone.
Maru collapsed to the floor.
Yutsumi caught him.
The real weight returned.
Usami exhaled slowly. "That was a mistake."
Yuka looked up sharply. "What was?"
"Letting him see the boy," Usami said.
Yutsumi met his gaze.
Too late.
Outside, somewhere deep within the curse-saturated ruins of a forgotten subway line, something stitched itself back together.
Mahito laughed softly.
"So," he mused, "that's the one who adapts."
The game had begun