Chapter Text
KENTO
There are some deaths that a person never gets over.
The death of a parent— the unimaginable loss of the person who raised you, sheltered you, whom you’d always thought to be the sum and total of strength when the world, to your child’s eyes, is too large to fathom.
The death of innocence— that perfect, shining hope shattering the first time you realize that the world, and the people in it, will never be as good you imagined they would be.
But perhaps worst of all, is the death of a dream.
Something that has never existed in the first place and yet feels like a part of you. Something that has its wings clipped before it ever has the chance to fly. Something that is buried deep within the very marrow of your bones and remains there, goading you into wondering what if?
What if?
What if?
It has been a long time since the day that Kento’s dreams died their brutal, bloody deaths. The day that disappointment became his closest confidant in this terrible, ravenous world, which devours so easily any shred of goodness or light or hope. And though he’d been told, again and again, that it would grow easier to bear— that crushing, all consuming weight of loss that resided in his heart like a curse— it never did.
He was starting to believe it never would.
He’d been told far too many times to count that his sense of pessimism pertaining to the state of the world— the state of himself— was akin to a dark cloud hanging over his head. But that wasn’t quite right.
It wasn’t an omen— it was armor.
Something which Kento had learned to wear with the same dignity that a King might wear their crown. Something to protect him from the hopes and dreams that still dared to try and push through the darkness shrouding his cold, broken heart, like new flowers through cracks in a sidewalk. Something to snuff out the glimmer of light that stubbornly clung to the deepest depths of his soul, like flame beneath the frigid winds of winter.
Perhaps the others were right— maybe his pessimism had become the most defining part of himself.
For so long he’d truly believed that there was no way to survive in this world without it.
Until, of course, he was proven wrong.
***
The squelch of muscle and flesh parting beneath the weight of Kento’s blow rings in his ears. A scream of agony echoes off the walls surrounding him, but with a twist of his wrist, the noise cuts off effectively by the burbling sound of a throat filling with blood. The body falls to the floor in a heap. Gentle wet gasps for air slowly tapering off until nothing but silence remains in the room.
Though his breath remains even, exhaustion suddenly creeps along the tense line of Kento’s shoulders as he straightens. Reaching up with one hand to fix the blood spattered glasses perched on his nose he glances around the room at half-a-dozen bodies strewn across the blood soaked floor. Dressed in the same black suits, with the same line of stitches tattooed across their foreheads, it is difficult to define what makes them different from one another now that their bodies lie cooling. Ripped apart by the unwavering savagery of Kento’s apathy— and the cleaver in his hand.
A distant part of his mind wonders what kind of men they might have been, though he knows it hardly matters.
They had made an enemy out of Satoru Gojo. Which means that they were dead men walking far before they stepped foot into the abandoned warehouse where Kento had been lying in wait for them.
With a quiet sigh, Kento takes a cloth from his pants pocket and wipes clean the edge of his blade. The mix of a half-dozen scents of the betas and low grade alphas lying on the floor fills his nose, slowly being lost to the copper tang of their life seeping out across the concrete.
Turning his back on the massacre, he gently cleans his blade as he leaves the carnage behind. Walking back the way he’d come, Kento doesn’t deign to spare a glance at the other dead bodies scattered throughout the maze of hallways that make up the hideout where these men and women assumed themselves safe from the wrath of Satoru Gojo. The few flights of stairs he must climb back to the surface are bathed in red light glowing from a few bulbs set into the wall. Kento ignores the itch of drying blood against his skin. With red soaked hands he slips his cleaver back into its sheath.
Despite the butchery on the lower floors, there is no sign of anything amiss when he reaches the ground level.
The cavernous space he arrives in appears to be nothing more than a mechanic’s garage, filled with a few cars that can be classified as nothing more than junk heaps. Racks of tools and tires are pressed against the metal walls and the only source of light comes from the thin windows up near the metal roof. In one corner of the room there appears to be a seating area where a few derelict couches with sagging cushions seem to have been set up in a loose circle. And upon one of them, looking for all the world like a King upon his throne, sits none other than Satoru Gojo.
Dressed in a crisp black suit, ankle crossed over knee and long arms spread wide along the back of the couch, he waits in absolute silence. Despite the blindfold over his eyes, Gojo stares unwaveringly in Kento’s direction, watching as he approaches. But what truly sends a shiver down Kento’s spine is the utter stillness that the Special Grade Alpha exudes.
Not a twitch of a finger, nor a jiggle of his foot. The Special Grade remains as still as a statue, sending a tingle of danger creeping along Kento’s skin like a razor blade. There is nothing in the air to suggest the kind of mood that Gojo is in and what is visible of his face gives nothing away.
He doesn’t dare to glance toward the Special Grade’s neck, though he knows what he’d find if he did. After all, the military grade scent patch that the Head of the Gojo clan has been wearing of late might blend into the skin, but they are not fully invisible.
As a result, the air remains devoid of any scent, aside from the lingering smell of oil, cigarette smoke and the heady metallic fragrance of blood clinging to Kento’s skin.
Stopping a few feet from his boss, Kento automatically folds himself into a bow of respect. A move born from years— decades— of following protocol as determined by his place within the Gojo clan. Though he’d never imagined himself chosen to be one of the sacred Eyes belonging to the Head of the Gojo clan, he could admit to himself now that were it not for the position Gojo had goaded him into accepting, his own ashes would have long since been buried.
“Gojo-sama,” Kento greets evenly, head still bowed in deference.
Though it has been just over two months since the Special Grade began using scent patches with steadfast consistency, Kento still cannot help but to find it off-putting. The scent of snow and salt, overwhelming in its intensity, had somehow become a comfort to Kento over the years of remaining close at hand to the Honored One’s will. Rationally he knew that it had much more to do with the meager conception of pack identity that led him to find comfort in the disturbingly strong scent. Yet despite his misgivings of being a fully-grown alpha in his own rite that still found comfort in another alpha’s scent, he took comfort in knowing that he was not the only one affected by the loss.
In the weeks that Gojo-sama had blocked off his scent, each member of the Gojo clan had felt the effects. Even Getou himself had appeared more on edge than usual, though perhaps that also had to do with the fact that Gojo seemed to be losing his sense of self, one day at a time. The darkness that had followed him like a shadow had, in recent weeks, become more prevalent in the Special Grade’s actions.
Where Gojo-sama had been lenient, he was now merciless.
Where Gojo-sama had been dangerous, he was now lethal.
And with each passing day, it only seemed as though it was getting worse, though none of them said a word about it. In truth, none of them could get close enough to even try. Not with Getou-san hovering around Gojo-sama like a well trained dog and with Gojo-sama disappearing at strange times. Sometimes for days on end. It was apparent that something had changed. And while the obvious answer lay in the fact that a certain Special Grade omega had taken his leave from Gojo’s side without a single look back— along with the startling realization that the boy was far more than he appeared, or even knew himself to be— none of the other Eyes were willing to bring attention to their leader’s slow descent into madness.
Some days, Kento can’t help but feel as though he is looking into a mirror of the past. Despite how young he’d been, there was an astonishing similarity to how Gojo-sama had withdrawn into himself and started behaving following Itadori’s departure compared to Shoutaro’s own demeanor during those final days. And Kento knew well enough how it had ended for the previous Head of the Gojo clan— knew that nothing good would come of it if things remained the way they were now.
“Mission report,” Gojo-sama replies after several tense moments of silence. His tone devoid of any emotion.
Kento straightens from his bow while fighting the urge to lift a brow and look down at his blood stained hands. There is no way that the Special Grade’s senses have missed the stench of fresh death wafting into the air around them, but he swiftly reminds himself that this is not the same man that he’d once been playfully goaded by in the past. This was a new and dangerous creature— one that Kento couldn’t count on to find humor in such a dry, insubordinate reply.
“All personnel have been dispatched. No survivors remain. Markings on each individual’s faces implies consistency with the intel brought before us, and to my own belief, serves as evidence congruent with our determination that their allegiance lies within the Ryoumen clan,” Kento says in an equally dispassionate tone. “However, after a sweep of the area, there appears to be nothing of importance to suggest that this specific faction holds any importance within the Ryoumen clan’s ranks. Consistent with the known evaluations of the deceased, they seem to have been a group of drug pushers that had recently made a name for themselves.”
Gojo-sama sits in that same strange stillness as he listens to Kento’s assessment. A chill runs across his skin that has little to do with the cold air seeping into the garage from beyond the metal walls.
He does not give in to the sudden impulse to ask Gojo-sama what all of this is about, though it wouldn’t be the first time that he’s been struck by it. Following the reveal of Itadori’s lineage, Kento had assumed that, if anything, Gojo-sama would back away from any and all mentions of the Ryoumen clan. Despite the dogged way that the alpha had pursued any mention of a resurgence in activity of the nearly destroyed clan, Kento had wondered if his obvious involvement with the pink haired omega would change his stance. Yet, in the days after Itadori’s departure when rumors of the boy’s death began to circulate the streets— first in whispers and then in undeniable screams— it became clear that any chance of Gojo retreating from pursuing the ghosts of the Ryoumen clan was nothing but folly.
Kento told himself that he was not foolish enough to fully believe that Yuuji Itadori was well and truly dead, and yet there seemed to be no other logical explanation for the total and complete obsessiveness that Gojo-sama now displayed. The terrifying and inhuman severity with which he cut a bloody swathe across the city. The absolute single-minded intensity with which he systematically wiped out any and all rumored factions of the Ryoumen clan, who proudly displayed the stitch tattoos on their bodies.
It was all too apparent that a deep, abiding rage now lived within Gojo-sama. One that he fed off of in the past several weeks. Sustaining himself in a way that no food, nor water, nor comfort of rest could bring. A burning fury that could not be explained in words, but seemed to be a marvel of the most savage kind. Like that of a dying star, its molten heat burned within him and moved him forward, but Kento knew better than anyone else in this world what would happen when it eventually burned out. After all, Kento had once been filled with the very same wrath— the same undying need to destroy everything, including himself.
Because Gojo-sama was not simply acting according to the loss of a potential bargaining chip in a war between clans.
No.
Gojo-sama was behaving as though he had lost a mate.
The white haired Special Grade alpha does not reply to the relayed information. For several moments Kento stands before him, posture straight, the air reeking of blood until finally, Gojo unfolds himself gracefully from his seat, standing to full, towering height.
It is only from years of knowing this man, having witnessed him at his lowest point, that keeps Kento from flinching at the prowling way the alpha moves towards him. With the constant covering on his eyes, as well as his scent patch, even those closest to him are helpless to wonder what his next move will be.
“There is one more target you have been assigned tonight,” Gojo says, stopping only a foot away. Pale hands folded in front of him, he looks the perfect picture of predatory ease.
“Of course,” Kento says, bowing in deferment to the order without a single shred of hesitation, despite the aching tiredness in his bones. Distantly he wonders if there is any lifetime his soul has lived in which he is not forced to work overtime… And then promptly dismisses the idea as all-out ridiculousness.
The stone cold expression on Gojo’s exposed features barely flickers as he acknowledges the sign of respect. Silence ebbs between them for several heartbeats before he finally speaks, each word measured and cold.
“Kaito Nishida— Fifty seven year old bengoshi with a private office in Nihonbashi. Details have already been sent to you.”
It’s simple and straightforward. Kento doesn’t bother to ask any clarifying questions. In truth, it wouldn’t matter what kind of answer he received for them. Over the years he has learned that it is not worth asking Gojo-sama for reasons why he is sent to kill certain people, if only because he can almost fool himself into believing that blood on his hands is not quite so red if he doesn’t know the reason why.
“And you are to make it appear self-inflicted.”
Kento barely reacts to the timeline presented. Eyes closed against the headache that has started to throb in the back of his skull, he murmurs the words he’s said a thousand times— and will most likely say a thousand more before the day he dies.
“As you command, Gojo-sama.”
When he rises from his bow a moment later, he finds that Gojo is already halfway across the room. Walking away with near silent steps without another word, leaving no trace of his presence behind.
Kento releases a deep sigh and stares after the man, long after he is gone. Breathing in nothing but the smell of death and blood and wondering how much longer it will be before he can shower it off of himself— not that it will ever truly leave him for good.
***
At nearly half past two in the morning almost every office on the eighteenth floor of a highrise in Nihonbashi was utterly dark and totally silent. Except for the one at the furthest end of the hall, where low light still shone from behind the frosted glass windows hiding the office from view. Everyone had long since gone home for the day, except for one, Kaito Nishida— which was just as well, given the fact that Kento really did not feel like dealing with any potential witnesses to the way he was currently winding the length of black cord around the neck of a very dead Kaito Nishida.
True to his word, Gojo had sent the proper information to Kento’s phone, preparing him for the confrontation with the seemingly harmless, middle-aged property lawyer that had set up camp in this tidy little corner office. Though to be fair, so far, it appeared that Kento could have easily performed the job with nothing but the man’s name, given how easy it was for him to enter the office building undetected and make his way up to the nearly abandoned eighteenth floor. Not only that, but when he’d arrived at the Nishida’s office he’d found the middle-aged man asleep upon a pile of papers at his desk, glasses askew and reeking of stale sweat. Entirely unaware of the fate that was walking towards him on silent feet.
Killing him was the easy part. A clean snap of the neck at the appropriate angle and viola. One dead bengoshi, practically served up on a silver platter for the Honored One’s pleasure.
And while Kento should not have cared why he’d been sent to kill this specific lawyer on this particular night, as he meticulously tied knots and wound black cord around Nishida’s broken neck in a way that would suggest the man had done it to himself, Kento can’t help but wonder.
With practiced movements, Kento winds the length of cord tighter and ties off a knot— slightly sloppy in appearance, as though the middle-aged man had made it with shaky, uncertain hands.
Eyes wandering around the office as he completes his work Kento sees nothing out of the ordinary to suggest that this man has any entanglement with their world. A few file cabinets are lined up against the wall behind the desk, there are cracks in the black leather chair that Nishida’s corpse slumps in, and the air has the heavy quality of a place where someone smokes regularly and has not opened a window in quite some time.
A survey map is spread across the surface of the desk with a few legal documents scattered atop it. To Kento’s eyes it appears as nothing more than a proposal for a new business development outside of the city— certainly nothing suspicious. A cold cup of coffee sits precariously close to the edge of the desk and briefly he wonders if he should knock it to the ground in a way that suggests Nishida’s foot toppled it over while committing his supposed suicide.
He slips the noose tighter around the man’s neck and then shifts backwards, allowing the length of cord to feed through his fingers as he reaches up to loop it over the, rather convenient, industrial strength hook holding up one end of the curtain rod. Tying it off is the work of only a few moments and with a bit of easy positioning, Kento places Nishida in a way that appears as though the man had stood upon his desk chair and toppled off of it, effectively ending his own life.
Stepping back to look at his work, he is once more struck by the fact that he cannot pin-point what exactly has made this man an enemy in Satoru Gojo. From the outdated certificates and diplomas on the wall heralding the man’s expertise in his field to the outdated, ill-fitting suit that his corpse wears. None of it points to ties to their lifestyle, though Kento has long since learned not to judge by appearances only. Still, something does not sit quite right in the pit of Kento’s stomach as he lingers, far longer than he ought to in the office with the dead man.
By now he should have been well on his way back to the lonely apartment he keeps in the city, where the oblivion of sleep might give him a few moments of peace from the horrors of this world. Instead, he adjusts the gloves on his hands and reaches for one of the filing cabinets beside the hanging corpse.
There are still a few hours left of darkness before dawn will creep into every corner of Tokyo and the other salarymen occupying the offices surrounding Nishida’s will return. Of course, they won’t notice the stench of the dead body for quite some time, perhaps not even days, depending on what Nishida’s reputation was like. But Kento knows that he will be long gone before then.
***
Less than an hour later, Kento finds it, though he’d hardly known when he’d started the search that this was what he was looking for.
The file sits innocuously between two others, marked not by a name or a date, but instead a single horizontal line with three vertical lines set into it at even intervals. Kento’s brow furrows as he looks at the symbol. Something nags at the back of his mind while he attempts to parse out what character it could be. Coming up empty, he pulls the file out and flicks it open with gloved fingers.
Eyes widening, breath catching in the back of his throat, he stares down at the page on top of the file and everything clicks into place.
***
By comparison, the sleek, perfectly maintained style of Kento’s personal office is a far cry from Nishida’s final resting place.
Blackout curtains are pulled across the wide windows along the far wall eliminating any chance of the dawn’s light from seeping in. Only a single lamp casts a circle of low, golden light across the top of his desk, illuminating the piles of paper work, surveillance pictures and notes that are spread out over its surface.
Their words jumble together in front of Kento’s eyes as he rifles through them. A tangled web that he can hardly manage to decipher given his lack of sleep and the pounding headache that has taken up residence behind his eyes.
The file he’d taken from Nishida’s office sits open on one corner of his desk. Its contents carefully segregated from the endless paper trail that filled the file on Yuuji Itadori. He stares down at the top page of Nishida’s file, brow furrowed in an attempt to make sense of the lines marking out a plot of private property. Words at the bottom describe it as nearly one hundred and fifty acres of forested land located in central Miyagi Prefecture— Sendai.
A deep sigh rattles free from Kento’s lungs. Hunched over his desk he shuffles through the rest of the mess on his desk. The slender fingers of his other hand press hard against his throbbing temple, rubbing circles into the thin skin in an attempt to dispel the pain. It hardly helps.
His gaze darts back and forth between the contents of the two files, searching desperately for the specific piece of this puzzle he knows is here. And not for the first time, he wonders at the sheer magnitude of the web that they have all found themselves in the center of. More than that— he wonders how the fuck Gojo managed to keep this all a secret from the rest of them for so long.
His eyes catch on the rough black and white grain of a photograph mixed amongst Itadori’s file. He pulls it free and stares at a photograph of two figures in motion, blurred by the quality of the city footage taken from the security camera in a train station. Kento traces the lines of the boy’s face, set with solemn intention, holding hands with a small boy with dark hair as they make their way off of the platform.
It is a moment captured in time, the gravity of which cannot hope to be carried fully in shades of gray and the ghost of movement. And yet, it is the moment that everything— truly everything, Kento has since come to realize— was finally set in motion.
The moment when Yuuji Itadori took the hand of Megumi Fushiguro the pieces of an enormous puzzle spanning decades, generations, finally started to fall into place.
Kento breathes out heavily through his nose and gently sets the photograph aside. Listlessly staring at the collection of documents before him he contemplates how the life of a single boy could change so much.
On the day that Gojo had revealed the truth of Itadori’s lineage to them— and the fact that he’d known about it for far longer than any of them could have guessed— there had been several different reactions. Grief, confusion, anger, pity. Kento was no stranger to any of them, but it had been years since he’d felt them so acutely. After so long of living in a state of simply going through the motions of life, the arrival of the boy’s presence had made Kento remember something he’d been trying to forget.
Yuuji Itadori— kind hearted, impulsive and too generous for his own good…
He is not the first boy Kento has known with those qualities.
And he is not the first boy Kento has known to die because of them.
Pain has lived in Kento’s heart for far longer than he’d ever lived without it. The tattered remains of it hanging within the empty cavern of his chest, filled with nothing but the blood that grudgingly kept him alive. Covered in the scars that he’d borne since the death of his beloved mate.
To witness Yuuji Itadori come into his life and serve as a stark reminder that there was good left in the world, was something that Kento had been utterly unprepared for. It had been as though the shadows that haunted his mind had become corporeal and the ghost of a different boy he’d loved more than life had been brought back in the body of another. And with each passing day that Itadori had spent entangling himself with Gojo and the rest of the clan, Kento was unable to imagine a different ending for the boy who reminded him so much of his beloved.
Burned and buried, sitting beneath layers of cold, hard ground, with nothing but a name carved upon stone and faded memories to remember him by.
But here, spread out before him, is a paper trail that screams to the edges of the universe that Yuuji Itadori was real— and he’d been so much more than what any of them had suspected. Gojo had hardly spoken a few words when he’d handed Kento the omega’s file several weeks ago, full to bursting with information about the boy. Compiled over not just the months since they’d been made aware of his presence, but going back years. Stretching all the way back to the beginning— or at least what Kento could reasonably consider Yuuji’s beginning.
Rumors of the boy’s death swirled through the darkest corners of Tokyo and Gojo’s increasingly brutal behavior pointed to nothing less than an Alpha suffering from a broken bond. And yet, despite all of the glaring evidence that seemed to prove that Itadori truly was gone, Kento couldn’t help but sift through these papers, night after night, searching for something that might prove fate wrong.
Blinking harshly in the dim light, Kento leans over his desk and stares down at the tangled web of lies and truths. Scanning across hospital bills, school transcripts and scattered surveillance pictures, he looks for the breadcrumbs of this boy’s story that may have been hidden in plain sight all along. Because while he knows he will follow Gojo into the depths of Hell, there is something that nags at him again and again. Something that tells him that if Gojo was willing to lie for so long about knowing who Itadori is, what else is he willing to lie about in order to protect his boy?
Kento knows exactly what he would have done to protect his— he can’t imagine Gojo not doing the same. If not something worse.
Leaning back in his chair, he ignores the terrible ache in his back and reaches for Nishida’s file. Cradled between his palms he flicks through the papers, which appear to be nothing but endless legal jargon and property information. However, as he flips over a page wherein the legalese takes a turn into describing the point of sale, a yellowed piece of paper catches his eye.
Attached by a rusted paperclip at the top, a piece of aged newspaper sits before him. Nothing more than a small blurb of text describing a terrible fate befalling the small family of three pictured on the right.
Memories flood him in an instant. Confusion rapidly closes in around them as he recalls, with startling clarity that he has seen this photograph before. Kento reaches for Itadori’s file and shuffles through the papers with a new sense of urgency until he finds a plain notecard, filled with his handwriting. And attached to it, is the same exact newspaper clipping that is in Nishida’s file.
Reading his own words he’s filled with the same sense of frustration he’d felt back when he’d written them. Even back then, it hadn’t made any sense.
Riddled with grief and reeling from the death of his mate, Kento had pushed back against Gojo’s demands to investigate the small family’s tragedy in Sendai. Looking back on it now, it was all too apparent to Kento that the fog of his anguish— the all-consuming feeling that half of his soul had been torn away— was exactly what Gojo had used to his advantage when assigning the mission to Kento. After all, while Kento’s entire world was crumbling down around him, he’d hardly been in a state of mind to look too closely at all of the connecting threads surrounding this one, seemingly insignificant tragedy. But now, as he looks at the identical cuttings found in both files he feels the dawn of understanding at the back of his mind.
Setting the newspaper article aside, he continues through Nishida’s file, eyes searching frantically across pages filled from edge to edge with dry legalese. Until, he comes across three more clippings on the same yellowed paper, filled with tightly cramped print, all connected by a paperclip.
The first clipping is dominated by a large color picture showing the shell of a burnt down home. Wooden beams stick up from the ground like charred ribs, surrounded by emergency responders whose faces were lost to the grainy quality of the image. And although the article is dated to the same day as the small family’s tragic deaths, it is from an entirely different news source.
March 21 - The Yomuiri Shimbum
Unidentified Woman and Child Found Dead After House Fire
A quiet mountain town in Miyagi Prefecture was shaken this week after a fire destroyed a family home late Tuesday night, leaving behind the bodies of an unidentified woman and child. Local firefighters were called to the scene around 3:40 a.m., but by the time the blaze was extinguished, the wooden structure had been completely consumed. The remains of the two victims were later discovered in the wreckage.
According to town officials, the home was not officially registered as occupied, and no records indicate it was leased or owned by any current residents. Authorities say they are now working to confirm the identities of the deceased and determine why they were at the property.
The cause of the fire remains unknown. Investigators from the local police department and fire service have launched a joint inquiry to examine the scene for evidence of electrical faults, arson, or possible other origins.
“This is a small community, and an incident like this deeply affects everyone here,” said Police Captain Nakamura Ichiro. “We are doing everything we can to find out who these individuals were and what led to this tragedy.”
More information is expected as this investigation continues.
Kento reads the article once and then twice for good measure. Mind moving at lightning speed, attempting to connect the dots, he flips it over to read the second clipping. Only to find that it is not a follow up on the investigation of the house fire, but something far more damning.
Lead Investigator Critically Injured in Accident
May 18 - Sendai City News
Authorities have confirmed that Detective Hiroshi Tanaka, 46, of the Miyagi Prefectural Police, was involved in what officials described as a “severe roadside collision” early this morning. Tanaka was airlifted to a nearby hospital, where he remains on life support. Medical staff have stated that he is not expected to recover, given the injuries he sustained in the crash.
Police have not released details yet about the cause of the accident, but noted that no other vehicles were involved. A full internal review is underway.
It is well known that Detective Tanaka had been overseeing the inquiry into the mysterious fire earlier this year that destroyed a remote home and claimed the lives of an unidentified woman and child. His leadership in the investigation had been described by colleagues as “methodical and deeply committed.”
However, though it has only been recently uncovered that a seriously interested party has made an anonymous bid to buy out the land where the tragedy took place, Detective Tanaka has been vocal in pushing back against the sale. Stating that “Any tampering with the surrounding land may interrupt the investigation in an irredeemable way”.
Local council members have agreed to meet with the buyer’s legal team in an effort to come to an agreement surrounding the ongoing investigation. Meanwhile, local officials have yet to make any comment on any new leadership in the case and the community awaits further updates on Tanaka’s condition.
The last clipping is nothing more than a slender strip of newspaper, printed like an afterthought.
A single picture of a middle aged man in uniform, smiling broadly at the camera is printed in black and white. Six simple words are written beneath it.
Detective Hiroshi Tanaka, dead at 46.
Kento doesn’t bother to read the obituary below it.
He knows the kind of loving words that will have been written by his surviving family. Perhaps a doting mate or a beloved child. Someone who would put down the man’s accomplishments into a neat little box of black text. Nothing more than the detritus of a life that had come apart too quickly, serving only as a stepping stone in someone else’s journey.
Two tragedies, linked by timing and proximity.
The burned down house in the mountains wherein a mother and a child had been killed by the flames and the detective who had died a few short months later in a senseless roadside accident.
He has since come to understand that the first tragedy is none other than the death of Itadori’s own mother. Though until now, he’d been utterly lost in understanding how the remains of a child could have ended up in the burnt down shell of their home.
Kento swallows harshly, looking at the twin newspaper clippings, detailing the tragedy of the small family’s demise… And the missing little girl.
Something drops heavily into the pit of his stomach as realization settles on his mind. There is no denying as he stares at these threads connecting these strange pieces that somehow that little girl had ended up in Itadori’s home. Whether she had burned to death alongside Kaori Kamo can’t be proven with both of their ashes long since scattered to the wind, but the bigger question that rattles around in his skull is why?
Why would a middle aged bengoshi have the same printed cut out hidden within this file?
What was the connection?
A hollow feeling in Kento’s gut tells him that the truth has been long since buried deep in the past. Unreachable by anyone other than the people who had been there at its conception.
As everything to do with Yuuji Itadori— one answer is uncovered a thousand more questions appear in its wake. Endless strings connecting Yuuji Itadori to people and events that Kento can’t even begin to fathom the importance of. As though the boy is a single ripple in the ocean that causes a tsunami on distant shores. And yet Kento can’t stop circling like a vulture that can smell carrion in the wind.
Setting aside the newspapers, he reaches for the stolen file again. The thick papers have gone golden in the light thrown from the lamp, highlighting the stark black lines on each page. Kento flips back to the beginning and begins to read each one methodically. Taking care not to miss a single detail as he reads about how one, Kaito Nishida, had been contracted by an unnamed client, interested in buying out a large parcel of land in Sendai.
The details of the contract are iron-clad, stating that Nishida would be the mouthpiece for this unnamed client and the signed NDA attached giving clarity into just how far they were willing to go to hide their identity from being made public. It is made increasingly clear as Kento flips through the pages, that Nishida took no issue with this set-up, especially given the large sum of money that was signed off on as payment when the sale of the land eventually went through.
Yet, on every signature line meant for the client, the same symbol remains— a single horizontal line with three vertical ones set at even intervals across it.
Kento stares at the page and suddenly the truth dawns on him. It is not just a character or a strange, random symbol, but something that he has seen before— recently.
A line of stitches.
Reaching up, he pushes his reading glasses up and presses the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Squeezing tightly, as though to relieve the pressure building within his skull. Unbidden, his eyes close against the harsh reality that even now, Yuuji Itadori’s story is a puzzle with half of the pieces missing— one that someone had hidden the rest on purpose.
It seems that no matter how far he delves, no matter how deep he dives into the tangled web that connects Itadori to his heritage, there is always more to uncover. And he knows, just as surely as he did the day that Gojo-sama had given him the boy’s file, that he will not find all of the answers he seeks here within the pages. Perhaps, aside from those who were there, the ones who tied these knots in the thread of that boy’s fate, no one will ever be able to grasp the entirety of it all.
Leaning back in his chair, he opens his eyes to gaze at the ceiling, watching the shadows that gather in the corners of the room as he stews in his own thoughts. A deep sigh rattles through his lungs, releasing the pent up frustration that sits heavy in the center of his chest. The ache in his shoulders protests as he rolls his head back and forth, stretching out his arms and casting a look at the watch wrapped around his wrist. Lamplight catches on the faint scuff marks across the glass face, shielding the delicate arms as they tick around and around and around.
Always running out of time.
Eyes aching in the low light, Kento mindlessly shuffles some of the papers across his desk for what feels like the thousandth— millionth— time. Gathering them up into a mockery of order, he pulls them back to the open file belonging to Itadori. His mind already swirls with the questions he will bring to Gojo-sama’s attention the next time they meet. About just how far back it seems that the Ryoumen clan had split into the faction symbolized by a line of stitches. The low burn of suspicion makes him believe that this is merely one more secret that Gojo-sama has known about and simply left everyone else in the dark about.
Mind wandering into darker places, Kento breathes sharply through his nose. In a childish display of frustration he pushes some of the papers away on his desk. As though it is the proof of Itadori’s terribly tangled web that has put Kento in this position. In doing so, from underneath a smattering of witness statements and surveillance logs that flutter to the carpet, Kento catches sight of a newly revealed photograph.
Much like the other papers from Itadori’s file, he’s inspected this one more times than he can count. But this time, his thoughts snag like spider silk on a branch as he looks at it now in the low, golden light. Picking it up between calloused fingertips his gaze sweeps across it. The time and date are stamped in the lower right corner and as is coming in all of the surveillance footage pulled from cameras set up around the city of Tokyo— of which, Gojo-sama and all of his Eyes have never had any qualms with accessing for their personal needs— the quality of the image is subpar.
However, just past the grain and blur of movement, Yuuji Itadori, unmistakable even in grayscale, stands outside of a nondescript building. The side of his face is captured in the overhead light cast from a street lamp, though the second person he stands with on the sidewalk remains hidden in shadow and slightly bent over as they appear to be locking the door to some kind of business.
Perhaps it is the exhaustion that has well and truly addled his mind at this point. Perhaps it is the sleepless nights and the scent of blood that seems to permanently linger in the air around him these days. Perhaps it is the crush of devastation that leeches out of his mangled, broken heart as his memories haunt him of a different dead boy that he could not save and the desperation he feels to fix this. But for the first time since he was given Itadori’s file, he looks at the image and does not find it to be useless. Instead of seeing it for a moment in time where Gojo had captured Itadori’s movements, he sees something deeper. A spot in the upper left corner, where the darkness of the building looks like nothing more than a gathering of shadows, but there, within it, is the faded outline of a sign.
Kento pulls the photo closer, squinting as he traces the characters stamped across the sign, and not only that— but a stylized mon marking the entrance of a dojo.
Tracing the emblem with his thumb, he reaches blindly with his other hand for the phone trapped in his pocket. Within the span of a heartbeat, the sense of fatigue drains from him and is replaced by the quiet, familiar pull of something aligning beneath the surface. A thread tightening.
He thinks of the loyalty that he has shown to Gojo-sama over the years. The time he has spent indebted to the powerful Alpha and the blood that he has spilled with his own hands. He thinks of the way that, for all of this, he has always, always felt as though he has been left in the dark when it came to the leader of the Gojo clan’s motivations. Now more than ever. And while there is a prickle of unease settling against the back of his neck as he considers the betrayal of hunting down someone else for answers, he shoves it aside. Rationalizing to himself that if Gojo-sama will not provide answers, then it is only common sense that he will go looking for them somewhere else.
Even if that means breaking protocol entirely and going after someone who knew Itadori personally.
Holding tight to the surveillance photo, Kento stands abruptly from his seat. Looking at the faded sign, Kento types the name into the websearch on his phone. An immediate ping accompanies the address shining up at him from within the glow of blue light on his screen. Kento crosses the small office and snatches the coat hanging beside the door, the ache in his shoulder flaring as he moves. The dull pain feels different now— unimportant.
It may be nothing.
Logically, he knows that this could be perhaps another fool’s errand. Another dead end of a dead boy’s prior life. But then again… What if it isn’t?
Switching off the lamp the office plunges into darkness. The faint gleam of his watch face flashes at his wrist. Hands circling endlessly, the soft tick cutting through the silence in time with his beating heart. He thinks to himself as he leaves the darkened office behind and heads out into the light of day, that time has never been on his side. But maybe, just this once, he’s managed to catch up to it.
***
Metal hinges creak slightly as the door of the dojo swings open under the weight of Kento’s hand. Pale morning light bathes the interior, casting warmth across Kento’s aching shoulders. The scent of wood, sweat and the faintest trace of something metallic hangs in the air, bringing with it the familiar tug of nostalgia from Kento’s own memories of time spent in the dojo at the Gojo estate. Training alongside the other Eyes at the command of their leader— as though Gojo had been preparing them for war.
He wonders now, if perhaps that hadn’t been so far from the truth after all.
Surveying the room he finds it to be in much better condition than the run-down neighborhood surrounding it might have suggested. Small and cozy, the walls of the front room are lined with ceremonial swords and other training gear. Lovingly maintained as a dedication to the generations of tradition practiced by those who have surely passed through these halls.
The front desk is unmanned, an empty wooden chair set up behind it and several papers scattered across its surface. Forgotten for the time being. And behind it, through an open set of shoji doors, the dojo proper is revealed. From within Kento can hear the movement of only one person, their quiet grunts of exertion breaking up the silence of the dojo.
Moving on silent feet, Kento edges around the front desk, towards the open doorway. He doesn’t bother to hide himself as he stands at the threshold, peering into the dojo proper.
At the center of the room, upon the weathered tatami mats, a single boy moves fluidly through a series of katas. Dark hair is pulled into a bun at the back of the boy’s head and his shirtless state reveals the gleam of sweat along his slender chest, dripping in the dips and curves of lithe muscles. Something tugs deep in Kento’s chest at the sight of the willowy frame of the boy moving effortlessly through each kata, tall and graceful in a way that has him reminded of the sweep of tall grass in a gentle breeze.
A sharp breath passes Kento’s lips and instantly, the boy stops his motions. Body tensing like an animal ready to strike, he turns to face Kento. Jade eyes narrow at him from across the room, taking stock of his presence, the same way that Kento takes in the smooth, angular planes of the boy’s face. The smattering of scars across his forehead and the nearly feral edge to the boy’s expression that reminds him of a dog backed into a corner. One that will not hesitate to bite.
Kento takes a single step into the dojo, a neutral greeting already sitting on the tip of his tongue to engage the boy and garner himself a moment to have a conversation. Only, when he breathes in gently through his mouth he is left stunned and frozen in place by the scent that sweeps down his throat. Raw honey and the bright sharpness of lemon sticks in his lungs, delicately trimmed by the smell of clean sweat.
Kento’s mouth closes with a snap and, to his shock, a growl threatens to rumble out of his chest.
Omega.
Across the room the boy watches him with keen interest. A flicker of something dark and primal passes through his jade gaze and an innate understanding prickles at the back of Kento’s neck as the air between them shifts. Crackling with a silent danger that sends a shiver of anticipation down Kento’s spine.
“Can I help you?” the omega asks suddenly. A trace of boyish mischief only thinly veiling the threat hiding within his voice. It is only natural of course, for any omega stuck in an enclosed space with an unfamiliar alpha.
Kento shakes himself free of the strangely arresting atmosphere that has captured them both in this moment. “I apologize,” he says, tone utterly neutral if not a bit gruffer than usual. “I was looking for someone else.”
The omega raises a dark brow, silently conveying his disbelief. Kento breathes in slowly through his mouth, attempting to mitigate the way that the boy’s scent mingles so enticingly with his own. Lemon, bergamot and dark chocolate, leather and honey— a cocktail of delicious scents that are far too closely tied with one another to suggest their strangeness to one another. Despite the control he exudes in all other aspects of his life, Kento finds his mind reeling from the way that this boy— this omega— somehow feels close. Too close.
“Maybe I can help you find them?” the omega suggests, breaking the lulling silence between them. Far too easily he adopts a more relaxed stance. Shoulders drop and bare, lithe arms cross over his sweat soaked chest. Kento doesn’t dare to allow his gaze to follow the movement, nor the droplet of sweat rolling down the side of his slender neck. Right over the tantalizingly flushed pink of his unmarked scent gland.
“I highly doubt it,” Kento says, steeling himself against the rising heat in his own body. Foreign as any enemy.
The omega tilts his head slightly to the side, further baring his mark in a way that makes Kento grit his teeth. A few dark strands escape from their hold and fall gently across his scarred forehead. For some reason the naivety of the gesture makes Kento think of a confused pup, but there is something still that keeps him from falling fully for it. A kind of feral astuteness that he knows, no matter how hard this boy tries to hide it, will never truly be hidden away.
“Why’s that?” the omega asks.
Silence stretches between them. That ever-present edge even more apparent in the way the boy’s scent goes sharply acidic, despite the sweetness that lingers in the air. It is impossible to ignore now that he faces Kento entirely— the glint of something almost mocking in the boy’s jade gaze. As though he is waiting for Kento to arrive at some conclusion he already knows.
For the first time in many, many years, Kento feels as though he has been put on the wrong foot. Standing on the edge of something new. Something terrifyingly inevitable.
“Because they’re dead.”
For a moment there is nothing but the tension between them growing even more unbearable as the words settle. He watches the omega’s expression carefully, cataloguing the way that he schools his features in a way that mimics any of the Eyes and the years of training they had completed to become masters of the emotionless masks they must wear on an almost daily basis. And then, like the first rays of sun over the horizon at dawn, the tiniest smile flickers across the boy’s lips.
“Dead, huh?” the omega asks, baring his teeth in what someone else might’ve believed to be a grin, though Kento instantly recognizes it for what it is— a challenge. “And you came to my dojo to find them?”
It is at this moment when Kento knows— knows without a shadow of doubt— that Yuuji Itadori is not half as dead as the rest of the world believes him to be.
Humming quietly under his breath, Kento feigns interest in taking in the rest of the dojo. “He was a fighter. To my knowledge this was the dojo he frequented.”
A quiet scoff echoes in the near empty space, but when Kento drags his attention back to the omega there is the same mask of apathy settled across his fine features.
“You could give me a name?” the boy says easily, as though they both don’t know that those six words are far more damning than a simple request for a name. “The student records are still a bit of a mess around here since I took over, but maybe I could turn something up for you.”
Kento resists the urge to narrow his eyes at the boy across the room. He has conducted more than his fair share of interrogations over the years as one of Gojo-sama’s Eyes. He knows exactly how many bones he has to break in order to get the answers he desires and he knows that people are far less likely to protect the secrets they believe they’ll take to the grave when he starts digging one in front of them.
Despite the boy’s uncommon ability to keep his reactions under lock and key there is very little evidence to suggest that he knows exactly what kind of game he is playing. Or if perhaps he has any idea of what Itadori had gotten up to outside of these walls. No matter the wild glint in this omega’s gaze, it is only a matter of time before he folds.
“I doubt you’ll need to find his record. His name is Yuujit Itadori,” Kento says evenly, choosing his words carefully. “You’re close with him.”
The boy doesn’t respond immediately. Jade eyes lingering on Kento, weighing him just as much as Kento has been doing in turn. Silence lulls between them and he wonders if the boy will deny it, but then, the boy shifts. Stepping forward on silent feet he closes the distance between them with all of the easy grace of a lioness stalking her prey, coming to a stop a mere few feet away. The lines of his body remain relaxed as he tilts his head up to maintain eye contact.
“Close?” he parrots back with a lift of one shoulder. “I was only ever as close to Yuuji Itadori as he wanted me to be.”
The boy’s immediate acknowledgement of his connection to Itadori takes Kento by surprise only for the way that he says it so straightforwardly. He is half inclined to call him a liar and yet, Kento has long since learned how to spot liars in his line of work and from what he sees before him, this boy is not lying.
“What’s your name?” Kento asks suddenly, deviating from the carefully curated system of protocol he follows for these kinds of interactions. Unable to go even a moment longer without knowing.
The omega’s grin sharpens like a blade between them— something that Kento realizes, with no small amount of perturbed shock, that he would willingly bleed himself on.
“You mean you don’t know?” he asks, voice mocking and sweeter than the cloying honey of his scent. “I don’t believe that for a second. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly the most important piece in the grand scheme of things, but I highly doubt that freak of nature alpha doesn’t know everything about everyone who’s ever breathed near Yuuji. Or that he hasn’t told his lackeys about them all.”
Unbidden Kento’s brow raises at the casual inference of Gojo-sama’s obsession with Itadori. But not only that— the boy clearly knows that Kento works for him. If it weren’t so damn off-putting, Kento might almost be impressed.
He redistributes his weight and casually folds his hands in front of him as he takes in the willowy omega before him in a new light. True enough he’d come here looking for answers that Gojo-sama has otherwise left out, but now he wonders just how deeply he has misjudged the situation. There’s no denying that Yuuji Itadori left a deep and bloody mark on the unstoppable force that is Satoru Gojo, but Kento had hardly been expecting this omega to know anything about it.
Unless…
A low laugh echoes out of the slender omega and Kento resists the urge to open his mouth in an attempt to swallow it whole and keep it inside of himself.
“You seem surprised,” the omega murmurs.
“I came here with the intention of finding answers that my employer has been unforthcoming about,” Kento replies, rather than rise to the omega’s bait. His voice is surprisingly even despite the tremulous feeling in his chest.
“Well I’d hate to disappoint you further,” the omega says, little fangs gleaming in the overhead lighting. “But I don’t think I’ve got what you’re looking for either. And even if I did, we both know I wouldn’t give it to you so easily.”
“That remains to be seen,” Kento replies, a quiet rumble tinging the edge of each word. “I’ve been told I am very convincing when I want to be.”
At this, the boy’s expression shifts into something downright gleeful. His jade gaze takes in Kento from head to toe, appraising his form as the air suffuses with sharp lemon and sweet honey, mingling with Kento’s own scent. “How about this… My sparring partner is a no-show this morning. Why don’t you fill in for them and we make this a bit more interesting?”
Unbidden, Kento’s mind wanders into darker corners— places that have been untouched for so long that he’d nearly forgotten they were there. Deep within himself, the embers of some long abandoned flame flicker to life. Their heat gentle and quiet, but slowly building in strength as each moment passes.
“You don’t want to do that, boy,” Kento says, voice rumbling deeper as the ghosts in his heart seem to echo in tandem. Memories overlay the moment as he stares at the dark haired, smirking boy before him.
The omega cocks his head to the side slightly, grin widening into something closer to feral as he tries and fails to hide the shudder that trembles through his body. Kento’s mouth floods with saliva at the sight, his gums aching where alphan fangs sit, pressing sharp against the curve of his lips.
“Oh, I really think I do,” the omega murmurs, eyes dropping down the front of Kento’s body and leaving a burning path of awareness with each inch they roam downward.
A deep hum reverberates from the depths of Kento’s chest. Far closer to something that he had long since thought himself incapable of doing than he’s fully comfortable with acknowledging. He regards the boy across from him with the sharpness of a freshly whetted blade. Wondering at the flutter of excitement he can feel building in the pit of his stomach, though he doesn’t deign to allow that emotion to cross his features.
He’d hardly expected to be challenged like this— certainly not here, in the middle of a quiet dojo that smells of old wood and sweat, on the hunt for a ghost. But there is a part of him that is pleased, primally so, with this strange turn of events. And the way that this boy— this omega— stands his ground across from Kento.
Breathing out of his nose, Kento reaches up and undoes the button on the cuff of one sleeve. With calm, precise movements, he folds up the sleeve until it rests in the crease of his elbow and proceeds to repeat the process on the other one. He can feel the boy’s gaze watching him as he does this, tension radiating in the air between them until he can feel it like a physical force.
“What’s in it for me?” Kento asks idly, taking his time to tug the tie loose around his neck and undo the top two buttons near his throat.
“You want answers about Itadori,” he says, “I’ll tell you what I knew about him.”
It is the wording of the sentence that catches Kento’s attention— past tense. Not present.
His lips twitch slightly, fighting against a smile at the gall of this omega to try and turn the tide of this back in his favor before it has even begun. If that is the case, Kento can play the same game all too easily.
He hums lowly, nodding his head in agreement, then amends with steel lining his tone. “You’ll tell me his current status… And you’ll tell me your name.”
The omega swallows heavily. It is the only outward sign that he is affected as heavily as Kento feels himself. Though he makes no comment or argument against Kento’s clarification. Rather than rise Kento's bait the omega lifts his chin and asks quietly, “First to blood?”
Kento releases a small growl of displeasure. His hindbrain utterly displeased at the thought of this boy covered in his own blood. Shaking his head, he leans down to take off his shoes and lines them up neatly by the wall. Rising to his full height, he steps forward into the boy’s space again, eyes locked with the omega’s pale jade gaze.
“First to submit,” Kento rumbles. The omega’s next breath is slightly shaky and the scent of lemon goes sharper before it is tempered by the sweetness of honey. “And you have not said yet what it is you get from his arrangement if you win.”
The boy’s flicker back up to meet Kento’s and glitter with that same feral light in them. With a huff of laughter the boy takes a few steps backward until he is more centered on the training mats. Another lock of dark hair escapes from its hold and sweeps across his pale, scarred forehead.
“When I win,” the boy corrects cheekily, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms back and forth as Kento takes a few steps closer. A cocky smile exposes sharp little omega fangs peeking out between plush lips. “You leave my dojo with nothing.”
He drops into a fighter’s stance, loose and low. Eyes sharp with a focus that doesn’t belong to a novice. Kento instantly catalogues his measured movements, which betray a practiced understanding of distance and timing. The fine hairs on the back of Kento’s neck start to lift— not out of fear but excitement. Heat builds in his chest as he swallows down the nearly foreign urge to growl in pleasure at the sight.
“I won’t go easy on you,” Kento says, dropping his arms loosely to his sides, taking in the omega’s willowy body with an arched brow of suspicion.
“Oh, I’m definitely counting on that,” the boy’s mouth curves slyly around the challenge.
For a brief second, silence hangs between them with only the faint rhythm of their breaths to count the seconds that pass. And then the boy moves.
Exploding forward with startling speed, the omega closes the gap before Kento can finish the half-formed thought of what his first move will be. His left hand darts out, aiming for Kento’s collar while his right sweeps low for balance. Kento shifts to the side, catching the boy’s slender wrist just before impact, though the little slip of a thing twists in an instant, using Kento’s grip as leverage to pivot around him and break his hold.
The move is clean. Too clean.
Kento braces himself and drives his elbow back, forcing the omega to retreat a step as his mind settles into the terrifyingly blank space he usually reserves for a fight. His mind races to reform the assumptions he’d made about the boy, all too aware that the brief contact was enough to confirm something altogether too shocking to truly believe. The boy knew his fighting style— had anticipated an opening Kento had never had an issue with before.
Maybe it was luck… But Kento was willing to bet it was something more.
Readjusting his stance between one breath and the next, Kento is ready the next time they meet in the middle. This time, it is clear that both of them are doing more than testing the range of each other’s abilities. Kento feints high and drives in low, aiming a solid strike towards the omega’s ribs. The boy parries with stunning ease with a sharp forearm block, the impact reverberating up both of their arms, and he counters with a quick knee aimed at Kento’s midsection.
Kento shifts back just in time, feeling the rush of air graze his side as he takes a step back. Hair falling out of the stiff gel holding it in place, Kento and the omega circle around one another across the worn tatami mats. Sweat builds on the back of his neck and he can practically feel the tempo rising between them.
The fight devolves into a rhythm of strikes, dodges and counterstrikes— each motion precise, almost surgical as they evade one another. Kento’s breathing steadies as the fight drags on for longer than he’d assumed it might. His awareness narrows, the world shrinking in on itself until it is made only of the sound of their feet on the mat, their quick breaths, the weight of each impact and the scent of leather, honey, bergamot and lemon melding together in the air.
The boy’s speed is almost unnatural. One moment the omega seems to be within range and the next he is nothing more than a blur of motion. His body darting around Kento like a striking serpent, unpredictable and deadly.
Sweat begins to gather along the back of his neck and in the fine hair on his temples. Kento instinctively sidesteps the graceful arc of the omega’s foot as it sweeps toward his head, only for the boy to seamlessly regain his balance and reach out with frightening accuracy to grab Kento’s wrist. Surprising in the strength of his grip, the boy mercilessly twists it sharply in an attempt to push Kento off balance, yet Kento quickly regains his composure, muscles coiling like a spring.
With a swift motion Kento braces his legs and pushes back against the boy’s hold, aiming a solid punch toward his ribs. But the boy was already moving, twisting with unnatural grace as though he’d plucked Kento’s next moves straight from his mind. Leaving Kento’s fist to brush against nothing but the air where the boy had been.
The omega’s eyes gleam where he stands now a few steps away. Thin chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his skin gleams with sweat, though there is no other outward sign of waning strength. Merely a glint of predatory playfulness in his jade colored eyes and a dangerous smile stretching across his lips— one that has Kento’s chest tightening with the repressed urge to growl.
In the next instant, the omega closes the distance between them, using his small frame to his advantage. He ducks under Kento’s outstretched arm and spins before Kento can fully register what is happening. Giving him the full ability to slam his bony knee into Kento’s side with a forceful, calculated strike.
Though Kento can only recall the amount of times which he has been caught off guard on one hand, he finds the wind leaving his lungs in a rush. It’s a solid hit— one that would have taken most people off of their feet, but Kento is not most people. Gritting his teeth he forces his senses back into focus, feeling the creep of something far more primal lurking beneath his skin.
As though sensing the shift in Kento’s demeanor, the omega doesn’t give him even a second to recover. He presses another attack, his movements fluid and relentless, keeping Kento on the backfoot. The scent of lemon and honey growing heavy in Kento’s nose. Sweet and dangerous and making his thoughts scatter with every moment that the fight drags on. He ducks under a series of swipes, his body reacting instinctively as this fearless omega presses his advantage.
It feels as though both an eternity and only a moment has passed when the boy sweeps his foot out low, catching Kento even further off guard. His legs give under the hit and before he can catch himself, the omega is at his back, practically leaping off the floor in order to wrap a slender, muscle-bound arm around Kento’s neck in a chokehold.
The pressure around his throat is tight, just barely shy of pain. The omega’s slender body presses tight against his— a long line of heat between them, with their heady scents mingling in the air. But for the first time since the fight started, Kento feels his head clear.
“Still with me?” The omega’s voice is low, his breath warm against the curve of Kento’s ear.
Kento’s fingers graze the boy’s arm, searching for leverage and savagely pleased with the heat of their skin rubbing together. Still, the boy has not let up in his hold around Kento’s neck, as though he is testing to see how far he can push. And Kento is all too happy to show the boy where he draws that line.
With a burst of energy, Kento twists his body, using his legs to unbalance the omega and forcing him to lose the upperhand. In the next moment, Kento surges upward, breaking free of the chokehold and hearing the muted thud of the boy hitting the mats, though when he whirls around he finds the omega crouched low in a defensive stance and a glimmer in his gaze.
Kento reaches up to push the fringe from his forehead, never once allowing his eyes to wander away from the feral creature across from him.
“Not bad…” Kento murmurs.
The boy’s sharp little fangs glint in the overhead lighting and a foreign, nearly forgotten ache blooms in the center of Kento’s chest at the sight.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” the omega replies, lithe muscles shifting sinuously under sweaty skin. “Too bad I’ve got you figured out.”
In an instant the playful tension between them thickens into something new. It is as though a veil has dropped as the air goes heavy with the unspoken understanding of two fighters that have crossed the line between sparring and something far more serious. And Kento can see all too clearly that there is a far larger risk of losing than he ever would have expected when he agreed to fight this omega.
A sharp flicker of irritation mixes with something darker— something desperate— inside of him at the way that their scents mingle together in the air.
His heart thuds hard in his chest, but there is no time to parse through the wild thoughts, scattering like shrapnel into the tender, bruised parts of his memory. The boy comes at him again, unyielding in his attacks as this new sense of seriousness descends on them. Kento sidesteps a flurry of offensive moves delivered by the boy’s graceful, slender limbs. Focusing on the task at hand, he uses the young omega’s momentum to his advantage, guiding the boy into a throw.
The sound of his body hitting the mats sends a rush of victory through Kento’s veins, lulling him into the belief that he has finally gained the upper hand. And yet, in the next moment, before he can comprehend what has happened fully, the omega twists and slides effortlessly from underneath Kento, using his legs to sweep Kento’s feet out from underneath him. The world spins as Kento goes down hard, his chest hitting the mat with a painful thud that makes his head throb viciously. Blinking hard against the way the world shivers and shakes, he forces himself into motion, barely having enough time to react before the omega gets on top of him.
Slender legs straddle Kento’s lower back, one hand goes for Kento’s hair, fisting the blond locks in thin, strong fingers, while the other grabs forcefully under the hinge of his jaw. The alpha within Kento rears its head at the attack— at the forced submission— and a threatening growl pulls itself free from the depths of his chest. But it does nothing to scare off the little omega who leans down, and without any compunction, presses sharp teeth against the side of Kento’s neck. Directly opposite from the scarred mark of his broken bond.
Both of them go utterly still. Heat radiates between their bodies, sticky with sweat, and Kento can feel the way the boy’s ribs expand and contract as he rapidly tries to regain his breath. The points of his fangs dig in slightly into the thin skin of Kento’s neck, though it isn’t enough to break the skin. It makes something howl within Kento, but to his complete shock, it is not in anger— no, it is something pleased.
The moment stretches out endlessly and Kento’s mind struggles to make sense of it. But all too quickly, it is over.
“I win,” the omega whispers, pulling back enough so that only the heat of his breath caresses the side of Kento’s neck. “Now get the fuck out of my dojo.”
***
JUNPEI
Junpei stands at the center of the dojo, staring at the empty doorway where the broad back of the blonde alpha had disappeared from. The sound of the front door closing quietly rings out like a gunshot in his ears, just as loud as the rush of blood pounding in his veins. Heart racing in his chest he can’t shake the way his ribs suddenly feel too small to contain the thrumming organ. His skin tingles in every place that had made contact with the alpha during their spar and the scent of them mingles in the air alongside something more primal that has his hackles rising. Almost as though the innermost part of his omegan hindbrain is signaling that there is danger lurking nearby, though it feels different than that.
It is not danger. It is excitement.
True to the alpha’s word he’d left the dojo without a single word of protest. He’d merely cast a lingering look in Junpei’s direction and had taken his leave. And while it was exactly what Junpei had asked for, he couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed by the lack of push-back.
Junpei ran a hand through his hair, pushing away the loose strands from his sticky forehead, though it did little to deter them from falling right back into place. Pushing back against the urge to delve deeper into his own thoughts and feelings lingering after their spar, he forces himself to focus. Crossing the room he reaches for the lump of his discarded sweatshirt where he’d let it drop after warming up through katas.
Bypassing the sleek line of his phone hidden in his hoodie’s front pocket, he snatches the hard lump of the plain burner phone he’d received in the mail at the beginning of the week— one that he will dutifully destroy and trash at the end of the week, just as he’s done to all of the others.
He dials the number he’d memorized from the small slip of paper that had been hidden away in the same package of the phone— the ashes of which sit at the bottom of the small trashcan hidden behind the dojo’s front desk— and holds it to his ear.
It rings twice— never more than that.
“Look, I know you’re pissed that I had to reschedule this morning, but you can’t use a secure line just to chew me out.”
“Sure I can,” Junpei replies jovially, unrepentant in the slightest despite the bitchy bite to Yuuji’s tone. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh, really?” Yuuji asks, sounding distracted as a quiet thump echoes from the other end of the line, followed by the muffled sound of a deep voice.
“Yeah, really,” Junpei snaps, “One of your feral boy toy’s goons just strolled into my dojo. A fucking warning would have been nice.”
Silence meets him from the other end, dragging on for several long seconds before a deeply put-upon sigh rattles over the speaker. Yuuji mumbles something distinctly mutinous under his breath that he can’t quite catch. “Which one?”
Junpei shifts the phone to his other ear and attempts to push the tangled strands of hair off of his forehead once more. “Tall, broad, blonde. He had that whole ‘I haven’t slept in sixteen weeks and I’ve never found a joke funny in my entire life’ look about him. Kind of hot, actually.”
“Nanami,” Yuuji mutters to himself in reply.
Junpei silently files away the name, unwilling to unbox the quiet flutter of something deep in his belly at the thought of the man whom that name belonged to.
“Thought you said that no one would come looking here?” He asks instead, pushing away the inconvenient reaction.
Yuuji hums. In the background the muffled, deep voice sounds off again, clearly saying something to Yuuji on the other side of the connection, but not loud enough for Junpei to parse out what it is.
“Well clearly you’re not tied up in the back of an unmarked vehicle, so I’d say that he was probably there for his own reasons,” Yuuji says.
“What a lovely thought,” Junpei replies, sarcasm dripping from every word, “He was asking about you though. Made it pretty obvious that he isn’t buying the ‘I faked my own death to go vigilante’ drama. Think he might’ve found something on his own?”
Yuuji sighs tiredly. “Probably.”
“To be fair though, you’ve made it pretty clear that none of the Eyes are stupid and I’ve seen better storylines than what you cooked up in shitty American daytime soap operas,” Junpei says. “It’s only a matter of time before one of them punches a hole straight through it.”
“Thought you said your mom watched those.”
“Kind of hard to ignore when they’re on all the fucking time… Some of them aren’t that bad actually. There was this evil twin episode where—”
“Is he still there?” Yuuji cuts in abruptly.
Junpei snorts. “You think I’m dumb enough to call you if there was even the slightest chance it’d get back to your rabid pet Special Grade? Get fucking real.”
“Fair.”
“That being said, I don’t think you’ve got much time left if you want to stick to the dramatics you’ve got planned,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the empty dojo. “That Nanami looked worse for wear and if Gojo is running his men ragged in circles in an effort to keep them all off of your trail then it’s only a matter of time before he’s got a mutiny on his hands. And then you lose all of this lovely leverage you’ve been working on getting.”
“Not much longer now,” Yuuji replies, though he hardly sounds pleased by it. There’s a weariness to his friend’s voice that is miles away from the tiredness Junpei had once hounded him on. Part of him wishes it was still caused by the ever-growing stack of hospital bills and hiding a job in sex work. “There’s only one more person I need to bring into the fold before we’re ready to mobilize.”
Junpei frowns, scratching idly at the back of his sweaty neck. “You know, the wider you make your inner circle the more gaps there’ll be.”
“Trust me, we need her.”
“Must be important,” Junpei mutters.
Yuuji is quiet for several beats on the other end of the line before he replies, voice quiet with determination. “I owe her.”
Junpei doesn’t dare to argue against it. He’s learned by now that the version of his friend that has survived through all of the bullshit he went through does not say things idly. It is strange, to look back and see in his memories the boy he’d grown up with— the softer version of him. The one that allowed the world to beat him down, though he kept fighting nonetheless.
That boy is dead. Buried in a grave that will never be unearthed. Replaced by a man who holds his secrets close and guards the people he loves with a fierceness that spells death for anyone who dares to threaten them. One who has, in every single way, stepped into the inheritance he’d never known was waiting for him.
It should scare Junpei. To see his best friend so utterly changed. And not only that, but to get himself so utterly swept up in it all. Even if Junpei had something to lose, it would have been impossible to remain on the fringes of Yuuji’s new life without facing any consequences. Somewhere along the line Junpei had gotten himself tangled up in the same strings that Yuuji was bound to his fate with.
Perhaps he should resent Yuuji more for it, but then again, he can’t imagine doing so.
“So who is this girl you’ve gotta recruit?” Junpei asks. “Please tell me that she’s better than Kugisaki.”
Yuuji snorts down the line. “Oh, no. She’s way scarier than Nobara-chan.”
“Great,” Junpei drawls, a chill tingling down his spine at the idea that anyone could be scarier than their head of reconnaissance. “They’ve got to be a fucking nightmare then.”
On the other end of the call that same deep voice rumbles in the background. Whoever Yuuji is with speaks low enough that Junpei can’t make out any words— though not for lack of trying on his part. There is a slight staticky sound as Yuuji covers the receiver enough to muffle his own voice, which replies to whoever he’s with.
“Listen, I gotta go,” Yuuji says a beat later, voice clear across the connection.
“Yeah, yeah,” Junpei replies. “People to see and monsters to kill, right?”
Yuuji laughs quietly, but the sound hardly holds any real humor in it. “We’re almost there, man. I promise.”
Junpei runs a hand through sweat damp hair, gaze falling to the dojo floor. “I believe you. And I’ll be ready, you know? Whatever comes next you know we’ve got your back.”
A breath trembles down the line and several heartbeats pass before Yuuji replies.
“I know.”
The call ends abruptly and Junpei stands for several long moments with the phone pressed to his ear. His mind flickers back to the way Nanami’s presence had felt. An itch creeps under his skin as he thinks about the way their bodies had collided— how their scents had blended so seamlessly together.
Exhaling slowly, he shoves the phone back into his pocket as he tries— and fails— to push those dangerous thoughts away.
There’s hardly any time to waste on them anyway.
Not when there’s still work to be done.