Tokyo's night breathed a quiet hum through neon-lit alleys, the dull thrum of electricity painting the narrow passageways in fractured color. The scent of smoke and steel filled the air. People walked by unknowingly—just beyond the curtain of the mundane.
Jogo moved with tension in his steps, eyes darting between alley walls. The scent of something… foreign. Something surgical and clean.
"Where are you…" he muttered.
He stepped past an old rusting dumpster, his molten fingers glowing faintly.
Then he stopped.
In the middle of the alley, like a phantom wrenched from steel and silence, stood a figure—straight-backed, immovable.
Agent 47.
In a stark black suit, white shirt, red tie, and a long-collared coat drifting gently in the windless air.
No expression. No words. Just stillness.
Jogo snarled. "So it was you—"
He didn't finish.
CRACK.A flash of silver.
A knife, manifested midair by Matter Creation, slammed into Jogo's right wrist, cleaving through it. Lava splashed against the ground as his arm retracted, already starting to regenerate—
Another knife. Left shoulder.Another—throat.Another—knee.
Like a conductor with an invisible orchestra, 47's arms moved with precise rhythm, knives materializing in his fingers only to vanish into flesh milliseconds later. His face never changed.
No tension. No anger. Just purpose.
—
From a rooftop across the alley, four eyes watched in stunned silence.
"He's… creating the weapons," Megumi muttered, eyes sharp.
"That's not cursed energy," Gojo said softly. "Something else entirely."
Itadori's face paled. "Is he even human…?"
Nobara whispered, "He's not giving Jogo time to breathe—"
—
Below, the alley rang with the sound of steel and flame.
Jogo roared, flames erupting from his shoulders. A massive fireball launched toward 47—He dodged with minimal movement, a pivot of his foot and a lean of his torso, the flames licking past the collar of his coat. His eyes never left the target.
He moved in.
Another knife. Then another. Then a pair of silverballers suddenly in hand—CRACK. CRACK.Two shots to the knees.Jogo collapsed, roaring.
"YOU THINK I'LL DIE TO—"
Snap.47 grabbed his jaw, twisted—SLAM—face-first into the concrete.Jogo's magma-bleeding face cracked the ground.
47 drew the fiber wire with one hand, wrapping it in a blur and pulled—but Jogo's body erupted in a volcanic surge—
Still calm, 47 jumped off, landing with feline precision.
Another volley of knives tore through Jogo's regenerating arm.Then a long, barbed metal spear manifested midair.
Gojo's eyes narrowed. "...He's adapting in real time."
—
Adaptive Instinct engaged.Every movement from Jogo, every millisecond his core flared with energy—47 adjusted. Without thought. Without hesitation.
—
Jogo tried to launch a final desperate stream of fire—
47 threw the spear.
Straight through his mouth, pinning him to the wall like a grotesque display.
Smoke billowed.
47 walked forward again, slowly, silverballer raised.
No words.
CRACK.One final shot through the head, before the regeneration could restart.
Jogo slumped. Silent.
—
From above, Gojo and the others watched the aftermath in silence.
Itadori broke it. "He… he just dismantled him. Jogo couldn't even react."
Megumi's voice was low. "There were no wasted moves. It was like watching a machine."
Gojo smiled faintly, serious behind the lens of his blindfold.
"No. Not a machine," he murmured. "A ghost… with perfect aim."
Nobara swallowed. "How the hell do we deal with something like that?"
—
Agent 47 walked past the corpse. Not a wrinkle on his suit. Not a drop of blood.
He didn't look up. He knew they were watching.
But he didn't care.
There was still Hanami.
And Kenjaku.
Only death lay ahead.
And he would walk toward it—alone.