Shoko Ieiri

Grey light seeped through the dusty windows of an old warehouse on the outskirts of the magic technical college. Shoko Ieri stood amidst a chaos of broken mannequins, torn scrolls, and crates marked "Scrap. 2006." She had come here on Yaga's orders—to find old reports on cursed tools—but instead of folders, her fingers brushed against a cardboard box tied with faded twine. On the side, someone had scratched: "Satoru, Suguru, Shoko — do not touch!" — her own handwriting from seven years ago.

She sat on a crate, ignoring the dust, and opened the lid. On top lay a burnt photograph with a jagged edge—the trio in school uniforms on the roof of the dorms. Geto was smiling with that same warm, genuine smile she hadn't seen since she was sixteen. Gojo beside him was making a silly face, without his blindfold, his eyes sparkling with a blue that had been breathtaking back then, and she herself—thin, with side-swept bangs and a cigarette clenched in her teeth just for show. At the bottom, it read: "Graduation. We'll make it." Shoko squeezed the photo so hard that the edge dug into her palm. Memories rushed back in a sticky wave: Geto's laughter at karaoke, his calm voice when she first tried to heal a wound; his descent into darkness, his body that she couldn't save, and the cold gaze right before the very end. And beside her—Gojo, who after that night stopped being a boy and donned the mask of an eternal joker, beneath which an unbearable pain pulsed.

— Find anything interesting? — a casual voice sounded behind her.

Shoko didn't turn around. She recognized that timbre—intentionally light, with a hint of clowning, but now there was a trace of wariness in it. Gojo sat opposite her on an overturned container, placing the photograph between them like a dividing line. — You know, sometimes I think: what if I had stayed with him until the end back then, instead of leaving for that mission? Maybe he wouldn't have snapped.

...but before he could answer, a noise echoed in the warehouse doorway, and a disheveled girl in first-year uniforms burst inside. She was out of breath, clutching a worn-out textbook on reverse cursed technique— Shoko-sensei!