Jujutsu Kaisen: False Dawn

I stood at the top of the shrine steps, hands stuffed in the pockets of my hoodie, head tilted just enough to let my eyes follow the scene below.

Utahime Iori.

I knew her. Of course, I knew her. A semi-grade 1 sorcerer, barrier specialist, support-type. Usually stationed in Kyoto. Friendly with Gojo, if constantly exasperated by him. She wasn't exactly central to the manga, but she was consistent. Reliable. Predictable.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Not in Tokyo.

Not this early.

And definitely not standing near the base of my shrine.

My heart beat faster—not fear, exactly, but that low buzz of anticipation. The kind of static tension you get before things go wrong.

"Why is she here?" I thought.

My eyes narrowed.

Could it be because of Rika?

It would make sense. I had summoned Rika here a few days ago during training—just briefly, just enough to test cursed energy feedback and output limits. I hadn't even fully materialized her, but the cursed signature… It was probably intense. Maybe too intense. Rika was special grade. Even just her echo could've been sensed.

But that was days ago.

This kind of response? A team? A black car and suits?

They don't know it was me.

They couldn't. I hadn't left any evidence behind. My cursed energy signature was still fluctuating, barely readable—especially with the way my Red Cursed Circuit suppressed the leaking flow. And it's not like I introduced myself to anyone. I hadn't gone to school in days. Hadn't shown my face.

So… this has to be something else.

My eyes landed back on Utahime. She looked a little younger. No scar.

That stopped my breath for a second.

In canon, she had a small scar over her cheekbone. Gege never really explained where or how she got it. It just… appeared in the timeline. So, what if—

This is it.

This mission. This assignment. Whatever brought her to Tokyo—it could be the moment she gets it. The moment that leaves a mark on her face, on her story.

I licked my lips. My brain spun faster now, thoughts tumbling out like cards from a shuffled deck.

A cursed object mission? That makes sense. Utahime's a support type. Barrier techniques. Area suppression. Sensing. Not combat-heavy.

So whatever she's here for, it's probably more dangerous than it looks. Support types don't move alone without a reason.

But this time she's not alone.

Five others. Suits. Possibly auxiliary managers. Maybe low-to-mid-grade sorcerers. One of them—a man with graying hair—handed her a file.

Or a folder.

I couldn't tell.

I squinted harder, cursed energy humming gently behind my eyes. My vision sharpened—thanks to Red Cursed Circuit's adjustments—but even from here, the angle wasn't great. I didn't dare move closer. Not yet.

I stayed low, kept breathing steady, and let my cursed energy flow just enough to focus my vision and my hearing. My circuits ran cold, faint, and minimal. It was almost elegant—almost.

I heard snippets.

Whispers.

"...curse signature in old grounds..."

"...reactive barrier if it's alive..."

"...protocol unknown..."

Useless. My hearing skills were garbage. Visual clarity? Good. Sound? Not so much. Still, it was enough to confirm my gut instinct.

This was a mission.

A serious one.

And Utahime was the lead.

I tugged my hood down over my head and turned away from the stairs.

Did I want to follow them?

Hell no.

But did I have a choice?

I sat down next to the shrine wall, heart still pounding. The opportunity was… massive.

I could observe.

Maybe even interfere.

If I saved Utahime from getting that scar, I might change everything.

She knows Gojo. She talks to the Kyoto school higher-ups. If she owed me something—or even just got curious about me—I could slide under the radar with actual backup. At the very least, it was better than isolating myself in some damn apartment until canon hit me in the face like a train.

So, I got up. Walked slowly down the path away from the shrine. Took the long way around. Let them think I left.

I slipped into a small food stall just outside the park. An old woman ran it. Her hands were wrinkled and steady as she grilled over the tiny flame.

"Just one yakitori," I said.

She blinked at me like I was crazy.

Who eats one skewer?

I paid her anyway, took the stick, and leaned against the counter as I ate. It was hot. A little salty. The kind of heat that clung to the roof of your mouth.

But my eyes never left the path. My cursed energy flickered faintly as I fed it to my eyes, keeping focus sharp and enhancing motion.

The group below shifted again.

The man with the file tucked something into Utahime's hand. Her expression didn't change. Still neutral. Professional. She gave a short nod, turned, and began to walk.

The others followed her.

They got into the car.

A long, black car.

Glossy.

It pulled away slowly, heading west.

I threw the skewer in the trash.

"...This is so stupid," I muttered.

But I was already jogging.

My cursed energy was still flaring behind my eyes, draining in tiny amounts with each step, enhancing my vision just enough to track the car through the streets.

I kept my distance.

Turned corners late.

Let shadows hide me.

I wasn't an expert tracker. I wasn't even a decent one. But right now? I had the edge. Because I knew things they didn't. I knew the rules of this world—well, the ones Gege wrote down. The rest? I was figuring it out.

If this was the mission that scarred Utahime…

Then whatever was coming was real.

It was cursed.

And maybe—just maybe—it was something I could get my hands on first.

An object.

A tool or a spirit. Even a clue. I needed an edge. Any edge. So I ran.

Down narrow streets. Past vending machines and flickering signs.

I could still see the car.

Barely.

They hadn't noticed me.

Yet.

I clenched my fists.

"Let's see where you're going, Utahime," I whispered.

And in the dying light of late afternoon, I chased my next terrible idea straight into the heart of Tokyo.