The water in the bathroom didn't run long. The patter of it cut off, and a moment later the door slid open, letting warm steam curl out into the hall.
Sumire Muroto emerged wearing one of Gojo's oversized T-shirts.
She'd bundled her wet hair into a clean towel, piled loosely on top of her head, leaving her neck bare. A few strands had escaped and clung to her skin, still shedding water that traced the line of her collarbone and vanished under the shirt collar. The white cotton fell to mid-thigh, hem swaying as she walked.
Nothing underneath it, either, which the fabric made no effort to disguise.
She paid it no mind. Details like that had never registered with her.
Gojo paid it less. One glance, then back to coaxing the small shape curled against his chest toward sleep.
Once everyone had washed up, Sumire dragged bedding onto the tatami and made a floor pallet. Gojo took the cushions against the inner wall with Betty tucked beside him.
"Well, well. Didn't take you for a lolicon, Gojo. Explains why you blew up like that yesterday." Sumire rolled over on the pallet, watching by the thin streetlight through the window as Betty burrowed deeper into his arms.
"That's not it." His palm moved in slow circles on Betty's back. His voice dropped. "If this one gets separated from me, she dies."
"Who said you could call me this one, you idiot Gojo?"
The complaint came from the dark, followed by a soft thump. Betty's fist against his arm, more affection than force.
Sumire smiled at the sound of it. Outside, night wind stirred the curtain, carrying a chill.
Inside this cramped apartment, though, something warm had settled. Something she hadn't felt in a long time.
The next morning came grey, Tokyo's streets still soaking in mist, when Gojo woke.
He pulled off the black sleep mask. Pale blue eyes adjusted to the weak light, and the first thing they found was Sumire, sprawled across the living room floor without a shred of decorum.
Her borrowed shirt had ridden up past her waist during the night. The towel had slipped off entirely, hair fanned out over the tatami in a tangle, and a bright thread of drool glistened at the corner of her mouth. Dead asleep.
"That your type?"
Betty climbed up out of his arms, rubbing her eyes, and followed his gaze to the sleeping woman. Her face gave away nothing.
"I was deciding whether to wake her for breakfast." He shrugged and looked away. "As for girls, I don't think I'm interested at the moment."
Romance struck him as a dull use of time. There were more interesting things to do, and more worthwhile ones.
Falling in love could happen whenever. Other chances didn't wait. The people you could reach out and pull back, once you missed them, stayed missed.
Besides, he had absolute faith in his own face and his own strength. If he wanted a relationship, it wouldn't take effort.
Betty shot him a flat look. She could tell exactly what shape of self-satisfied thought was passing through his skull.
She said nothing, hopped down on short legs, and went to shake the woman awake.
The three of them tidied up, locked the door, and headed for Rentaro's apartment.
Breakfast was already made when they arrived. Charred rice balls, miso broth, fried eggs, all of it drifting out through the gap in the door.
Enju reached the door first and swarmed Gojo the second it opened, chattering, eyes shining.
Rentaro, at the table, hadn't changed much. Flat expression, exhaustion sitting under his eyes that hadn't washed out overnight. Yesterday hadn't loosened its grip on him.
Powerless against the world's hatred of Cursed Children. And unable to swallow how easily Gojo had killed.
Gojo took no notice of the cold shoulder. He dropped into a seat, grabbed a rice ball, and ate with zero ceremony.
Watching her employer help himself, Sumire followed suit. She'd known Rentaro long enough that standing on manners would have been strange anyway.
Breakfast went fast. Rentaro packed the lunches and got ready to walk Enju to school.
At the door he glanced toward the girl sitting in the corner of the living room, then back at Gojo. "She's in your hands."
A night's rest, a shower, and a set of clean clothes from Enju had erased yesterday entirely.
The filthy, terrified child was gone. In her place sat a girl with a short bob and enormous bright eyes. Still thin from years of not eating enough, still pale, but the difference in her was staggering. Catching Gojo looking, she smiled, delighted and shy at once.
He pulled out his phone, made a short call, said a few casual things, and hung up.
Before long a black luxury sedan glided to a stop below the building, the driver already out and waiting beside it.
"All right. Time to go."
He waved them toward the stairs. Sumire got her bearings and started walking in the direction of the 39th Area on foot, until a hand caught her.
"What?" She stopped, baffled.
"The 39th Area is rubble now, sure. Still a long way to walk."
"It's a long way," Betty added from the side, arms folded, unimpressed.
Sumire touched her cheek. She had no real sense of the distance. Her old life had been the laboratory, sunrise to whenever, her head full of Gastrea Virus data. Trivia like where the 39th Area sat on a map had never earned a slot.
"Then what's this?" She pointed at the sedan.
Gojo smiled without answering and pulled the door open, climbing in first.
Once everyone had settled, the driver turned around. "Mr. Gojo, everything you asked for is prepared. It's all in the trunk."
"Good." Gojo nodded. "This afternoon, same as usual, get the fresh groceries over to the apartment. For now, head toward the 39th Area. Stop when the road gets bad."
"What exactly did you prepare? You're being cryptic." Sumire leaned back against the seat, curious.
"Nothing special. Household supplies."
He brushed it aside with a smile and left it there. Sumire took the hint and turned to the window.
The city changed as they drove. Clean, crowded streets thinned out, then frayed. Buildings grew shabbier, half of them collapsed into heaps. Abandoned cars sat crosswise in the road. Graffiti and bullet holes covered the walls, and now and then a drifter with a weapon watched them from behind a pile of debris, the air pressing tighter with every block.
The car eventually rolled to a stop at the edge of an unbroken field of ruin.
"Mr. Gojo, this is about as far as I can manage." The driver turned, wearing an apologetic smile. "The road past here is too rough for the car, and I'm not carrying anything to defend myself with. I'd rather not go deeper."
He knew what places like this bred. The 39th Area had no order left in it, and neither morality nor law meant anything on this ground. One enormous slum, all of it chaos and knife fights, and an unarmed man walking in couldn't count on walking out.
"Here's fine. Thank you." Gojo understood the man's position perfectly and kept his smile mild.
"I'll back up a bit and wait for your return..."
"No need." A wave of his hand cut the offer short. "Go on home. We'll have a look around while we're out here."
A look around? The driver's face went blank. He couldn't picture what a man like Gojo would find worth seeing in a stretch of barren rubble.
He knew better than to ask. Whatever this man could do, it was beyond anything he could measure, so he bowed his head and accepted it.
Gojo led everyone out of the car and went around back, hauling two large crates from the trunk.
He lifted both in one hand as though they weighed nothing. Hana's eyes went round with awe.
The black sedan turned and disappeared down the road.
"Lead the way. We'll walk you back." Gojo looked down at her, gentle about it.
The girl nodded and started off, picking a path through the uneven wreckage.
As they went, both Gojo and Betty felt them clearly. Eyes, dozens of them, watching from cracks and gaps in the ruins. Curiosity. Greed. Malice.
Not one of them came forward. Something in the air around Gojo made sure of it.
Ten minutes of stumbling over broken ground, and Hana stopped at an unremarkable corner.
She crouched, dragged aside a filthy sheet of cloth and a few chunks of concrete propped over it, and uncovered a rusted manhole cover.
"You can leave me here." She looked up at him, and her thin face colored. Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt. "We... we live in the sewer."
Living down there in the dark and the filth felt shameful to her. She was afraid this kind man would recoil from her for it, and from everyone else down below.
"That's fine. And there's nothing shameful about it." No trace of disgust crossed his face. He reached out and ruffled her hair. "Having a place that keeps the rain off and keeps everyone safe is an achievement."
Hana blinked. She searched his eyes for the polite lie and didn't find one. Her shoulders came down. She nodded and hauled the heavy cover open.
No stench rushed up at them, which surprised everyone. Only the stale, closed smell of air that hadn't seen sunlight in years.
Hana went down the ladder first, Betty and Sumire behind her. Gojo hit a snag.
He fit fine. The crates didn't come close to fitting through the narrow mouth.
So he set them down, opened them, and transferred the contents piece by piece into the belly of the Inventory Curse he carried.
Which finally gave Sumire a look at what was inside.
Both crates were packed solid with food and medicine.
Mostly canned meat and fruit, heavy portions, easy to store, easy to eat, and not bad tasting either. A few vacuum-sealed sacks of rice and flour alongside them.
The medicine covered everything ordinary. Cold remedies, fever reducers, antiseptics, bandages, all of it.