Sasha woke up with a stiff back and a dry mouth. The ceiling above him spun slowly, a fan, lazy and quiet. Curtains swayed in a faint morning breeze. He sat up.
The room was simple. Wood floors, one window, clean white walls. The kind of small Tokyo apartment that barely made a sound. Too peaceful.
He stood, stretched, and cracked his neck. No pain. No wounds. No bandages. His body felt lighter. Younger. It'd been scrubbed clean of damage. Just he'd asked.
In the kitchen, he found the envelope exactly where the dog said it would be. The kanji was crisp and official-looking. Tokyo Jujutsu High.
Inside: a letter confirming enrollment. Orientation starts in two weeks. Simple enough. Beneath it was a wallet with his ID, a stack of yen, a residence card, and a keycard for the building.
Everything was already prepared.
Still half-asleep, he wandered out onto the balcony. The city was wide awake. Traffic murmured below. He reached for his jacket pocket out of habit. Empty.
His fingers hesitated. Then curled like they were still holding something. He grunted.
He left the apartment in sweats and slippers. Found a konbini two blocks away. Bought a pack of cigarettes, a cheap lighter, and a cold bottle of tea. Paid in cash. Nobody questioned him.
Back on the balcony, he lit up. First, the drag scratched the back of his throat. Familiar. A little grounding.
It felt good. His thoughts slowed down. Muscles unclenched. The buzz in his chest eased like flipping a switch.
The next few days blurred into a routine. Mornings started with a jog. Nothing long, just enough to loosen his joints. Push-ups. Squats. A few stretches. Just like he did during downtime in the field.
After lunch, he focused.
The cursed energy was there from the start. Not something he had to summon, it pulsed inside him. Raw. Heavy. Waiting to be used. They hadn't lied. Didn't find power. He just had to stop it from slipping out sideways.
He started small. Visualising arrows. Force. Direction.
The first day, a coin zipped off the table and stuck into the wall.
Too much force.
On day two, he slowed things down. Controlled the pull. Hovered a pencil midair for three seconds before it wobbled and dropped. Better.
By day four, he could lift five different objects and hold them steady without difficulty. Still a little twitchy, but nothing exploded. That counted.
Evenings were for walking. Watching. Listening. Kids at ramen shops swapped stories about haunted classrooms. An older man warned him not to walk past a particular alley at night the usual city folklore.
Didn't laugh. Some of it was probably real.
On the way home, he took a detour through a side street. Quiet. Narrow. A small shrine sat tucked between buildings, worn and cracked. He passed it without stopping.
Something behind him shifted.
He kept walking. Didn't know.
Inside the apartment, he opened the window wide, inviting the refreshing city breeze to wash over him. Leaning against the frame, he lit another cigarette and embraced the vibrant night's energy. Grabbing a chilled can of beer from the fridge, he popped it open with a satisfying hiss and savoured a long, leisurely sip. The crisp bitterness beautifully punctuated the quiet. A pencil from earlier lay close by, perfectly still, but his focus remained elsewhere.
"Not too shabby," he said to himself with a smile.
Just two weeks to go
Plenty of time.