The medical ward of Tokyo Jujutsu High was nothing like Arata expected.
No white sterile lights, no cold silence. Instead, the room was dim, filled with the soft hum of an old fan and the faint smell of antiseptic mixed with cigarette smoke that Shoko never quite managed to hide. A stack of half-finished reports lay on her desk, her chair pulled out just enough to show she'd been working until the last moment.
Arata sat on the bed nearest the window, the sunset painting the room orange. His arm was wrapped where he'd taken some strain during the mission, though it was nothing serious. He was more tired in his mind than his body—too much use of brain in too short a time.
Shoko stood by a small freezer tucked in the corner, opening it with a lazy motion. She pulled out a popsicle and, without asking, handed it to him.
"Here. Trust me, this works better than any medicine after a mission."
Arata blinked, then took it. "...A popsicle?"
"Mm." She sat down in the chair across from him, crossing one leg over the other, her lab coat sliding off one shoulder. "Sugar, cold, and distraction. Works for the strongest idiot I know."
Arata peeled the wrapper, the cool scent of artificial grape filling the air. He took a bite, and his lips twitched faintly. "You give this to Gojo too?"
"Every time he walks in here whining about a scratch." Shoko smirked. "Though in his case, he usually steals two."
Silence lingered, but it wasn't heavy. Arata let the quiet wash over him. This was different from Gojo's constant chatter or Kusakabe's steady lectures. Shoko had the air of someone who didn't need to fill the silence.
After a while, she leaned back, her gaze drifting to him. "You know… Satoru sees something in you."
Arata looked up from the popsicle. "What do you mean?"
Shoko tapped the arm of her chair. "He says your technique—creating and shaping cursed spirits, using them as extensions of yourself—reminds him a little of Suguru. Different, but… close enough to stir old memories."
The name wasn't new. Arata had read and heard pieces here and there. But now, hearing it from her mouth, he could feel the weight behind it. "…Geto Suguru."
Shoko's smile faded slightly. "Yeah. Him." She pulled out her pack of cigarettes, twirling one between her fingers but not lighting it. "Back then, the three of us—me, Gojo, and Geto—we thought we'd be together forever. Until we weren't.
Arata stayed quiet, listening. The popsicle dripped faintly, forgotten in his hand.
"He was brilliant. Not just strong, but someone who thought ahead. Always caring for others, always carrying their burdens. But… that care turned into resentment. For non-sorcerers, for the way they lived carefree while sorcerers threw away their lives."
Her eyes narrowed, as though watching a memory no one else could see. "When he turned, he didn't just leave us. He became everything we fought against."
Arata leaned forward, resting the popsicle stick against his knee. "And Gojo?"
"He still calls him his best friend." Shoko's voice was softer now, almost a whisper. "Even after everything. That's why he looks at you the way he does. Your cursed technique isn't the same, but the shadow of it… it reminds him. And he's scared."
Arata was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "…I'm not him."
Shoko's eyes met his, steady and firm. "I know. That's why I'm telling you this. Don't become him. Learn from him, maybe, but don't walk the same path. You've got that headstrong fire. Use it to stand up for what's right—even if the world says otherwise."
For the first time since he arrived at Jujutsu High, Arata let himself smile openly, small but real. "You sound like an older sister lecturing her sibling."
Shoko chuckled, finally lighting the cigarette and taking a slow drag. "Huh. Maybe I do. Guess that makes you my troublesome little brother now."
Arata bit the popsicle again, nodding slightly. "I don't mind that."
The ward filled with the faint haze of smoke and the sound of the fan. A strange warmth lingered—not from cursed energy, but from something gentler.