Chapter Text
Shinjuku Station. 2005.
Today, Toge is four years old. A big boy now, like mum says.
It’s cold outside, and they are at shin-ju-ku stay-shon, and mum holds his hand so hard it shakes. Maybe she is excited, like him?
Toge hasn’t left home ever: Mum says he is good boy that needs to stay inside the ah-part-ment at all times. And Toge is a good boy, so he always listens to Mum.
But today, for his birthday, she says they can leave for ice cream.
Toge struggles to keep up with Mum, his tiny legs scurrying quickly to keep up with her wide strids as her hand guides and drags him forward. His eyes dance between her and the large grey bag she tugs behind her in the other hand. He had tried to ask if they were having a sleepover, like she sometimes has at other people’s homes while Toge stays at home watching car-toons, but she had been grumpy when he’d asked. ‘Curiosity killed the cat, Toge,’ she had said. And Toge loves cats, especially the orange Tab-by that licked their window when the sun woke up.
Maybe she is taking him to see the dock-tor? Like the running bird in his car-toons when it falls over.
Because this morning Toge woke up with a strange taste in his mouth.
It was the same taste as when he had run into the glass door that led to the outside floor, but Toge’s tongue didn’t hurt – his throat did. Mum had looked into his mouth, say ahhhhh, and then got sad. Then she started packing and promised to take them to get ice cream.
Toge wishes they could get ice cream quicker. Or see the dock-tor right now. His throat hurts so much. It really, really hurts. It’s like there is an earthworm in there, trying to dig its way out to see the light.
He should tell mum, because she always says that he should tell her if he is hurt.
Toge is four years old today, and when he opens his mouth, the world shudders. Red mist coats everywhere he looks. He is confused, and his throat hurts, but it also doesn’t, like the earthworm had finally left but dug too big of a hole when it did.
Red sprinkles from the roof and the walls. Maybe the tv man let the fireworks off early?
Toge turns to ask mum – she knows everything, like how to make the car-toons appear and that war-ter comes from the tap – but she isn’t in front of him.
And Toge is confused, because he can still feel her hand in his.
So, he looks down, and her hand is in his, just like he thought. But that is all. Just her hand. Still gripping his. No arm. No body. No Mum.
Toge doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he feels something warm and sticky beneath him when he lays down to cry.
When Toge wakes up, there is a man with ink spirals on his arm sitting next to him and something very heavy across his mouth.
The man says his name is Kaito and tells him that he is a friend. He says that the thing on Toge’s mouth is so that he doesn’t hurt someone – be a good boy and don’t speak unless I tell you to. Toge can’t remember, but he thinks he hurt someone already. A lot of someone’s. His Mum. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone else.
Kaito says he is a part of a big family. And that Toge is now a part of this family. As long as Toge listens and does what he is told, like a good boy, he can stay.
But Toge remembers his Mum telling him about smiling men, Toge, never trust anyone, especially someone who is smiling at you like they already know you, so he will promise for now. Then, he will do exactly as mum told him and run – run away as fast as you can, Toge. Never stop running.
Later, Kaito comes back and sits beside Toge again. He says that if Toge is a part of the family, then he needed to look like it. A big man comes in with as much black ink as Kaito, and he holds Toge down. Toge feels a sharp pain digging over and over on his cheeks and cries from the pain.
Then, Kaito takes off his mask and tells Toge to stick his tongue out – you want to be a good boy, don’t you? – and Toge does what he asks. They pinch it with some big shiny thing, and he feels the sharp pain again and again and again.
Toge cries, but he doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone else.
He wants to go home.
Tokyo, Kabukicho District. 2009
“Where is it?”
A sinister voice slices through the dank warehouse, echoing between the torrents of rain outside. Shadows sidle around them. Even they fear the Yakuza.
“You’ve seen how little patience I have. I won’t ask again.”
The Yakuza Head, Kaito, is tall and burly. His light hair is combed back, and his black eyes hold no light. There is no one in Japan that the Underworld fears more.
Below Toge’s eyeline is a trembling man. Maybe if he had passed him in the street – seen the face tattoos, bulging muscles and cruel eyes – he would be intimidated. Turned the other way or crossed the road to avoid him. But he isn’t at all intimidated here. Not when half of his crew is dead behind him.
Toge tries not to look directly at the carnage. Twisted bones and blood-burst eyes are nothing new; but still, even now, it turns his stomach. Sends white hot flashes of guilt burning through him like an inferno. But he can’t afford to feel. Toge breathes deep, then suddenly his body is here with the pungent smell of fear, but his mind is somewhere else. Somewhere fuzzy and bright. Somewhere with ice cream and a warm smile.
“I-I… I don’t know!”
Silence permeates the warehouse in the wake of the man’s admission. A lie, then. Too many sources had told them that this man and his crew were dealing in Yakuza streets.
“That was a mistake, Mr Yuko.”
Kaito glances at Toge, then flicks his hand. An official directive for the weapon in the room. Cursed energy surges through Toge’s throat, acidic and rank. He wonders if this is what power tastes like.
Then he opens his mouth, releasing the charged words.
“Burn.”
Mr Yuko contorts in agony, too pained to even scream. He wriggles aggressively on the concrete, a snail baking in salt.
One.
Blood begins to ooze, then splatter from his orifices. Toge doesn’t need to look at Kaito to know he exudes ecstasy for this man’s suffering.
Two.
Loud cracks ricochet off cinderblock walls. Years ago, the Yakuza used to breed wolves as guard dogs for their distribution locations. Toge never saw it, but the older members would tell him bedtime stories. Of how they once watched one of wolves snap its own back just to bite through the bars of its cage. Rabid. Desperate. Pathetic.
Three.
“Release.”
The man, Mr Yuko, stills for a second, breathing heavily, then explodes in bellows and tears. One of his legs has bone protruding from the thigh: Painful, but not fatal. Toge had learnt early that too much pain leads to heart attacks. Three seconds was an appropriate count for suffering.
Kaito squats slowly to the ground, then snatches Mr Yuko’s jaw in his hands.
“If you do not know where your own drugs are stored, then what good are you to me?”
Before the man can blink, his jaw is crushed. He takes a while to die properly.
Outside of the warehouse, rain continues to pelt loudly. Among the tang of iron blood is the smell of mildew and wet grass.
“Toge.”
Toge shifts his eyes to the Yakuza Head, and now that the butchery has ended, a wave of familiarity washes over him. His Boss. His Father. Kaito. Toge blinks slowly, awaiting orders. A disappointed sigh leaves Kaito’s mouth.
“Kill the rest. There’s nothing else here for us.”
Toge glances at the five other drug dealers chained to the wall of the warehouse. They all shuffle and jolt in fear, trying to outmanoeuvre their shackles. Pointless.
Toge’s slow steps echo as he moves closer towards them. One of them groans and yells through the thick muslin shoved in his mouth, ready to talk now that his leader is dead. But it doesn’t matter. Kaito, leader of the Yakuza, has pointed his weapon and pulled the trigger.
“Twist.”
Today, Toge is eight years old. He kills like a good boy, just as Kaito taught him.
Fukushima Exclusion Zone. Warehouse #1. 2018
Satoru watches the kids spar in a frantic free-for-all that is all sweaty limbs and exaggerated panting. Maki’s getting quicker, he can’t help but notice; Megumi is less on the defensive, which is a miracle; and, by some sheer stroke of luck, Miwa doesn’t seem to be completely useless. Truly, Toji the Sorcerer Killer is the best combat teacher he’s ever met. Which is absolutely an insult to every teacher in this room.
Crazy to think the last time they spoke to each other, Satoru had blasted away half his torso.
“That’s it for today.” Toji’s bored voice breaks the spar up. His eyes are zeroed in on one of the kids—Toge Inumaki. Satoru stands a little straighter in response. Toji’s methods, while effective, were not kind. And Inumaki hasn’t improved.
“You said no secrets, right?”
Toji addresses Yuuji, who has also been watching the kids spar. He doesn’t reply.
Toji allows most of the children to pass him to get their water bottles or collapse on the concrete, but before Inumaki can do so, he is so swiftly pinned to the ground that Satoru almost misses it. Toji holds a sharp knife to the bottom of Inumaki’s right eye, digging deep into the undereye tissue. Blood dribbles slowly down the boy’s face into the concrete below. Toji’s whole form is planted on top of Inumaki’s, limiting all movement—one leg pins his left thigh painfully, his other stretches up to pin one wrist to the ground. To Inumaki’s credit, he manages to grab the blade of the knife with his other hand before it can blind him, though it has completely pierced through the palm of it. Toji’s hand, which doesn’t grip the hunting knife, holds over Inumaki’s mouth and nose tightly. Inumaki’s neck is bared to Toji like a submissive dog.
It is such an erratic and violent display of power that everyone freezes, unsure of the right thing to do. Yuuta’s hand is at his sword, but with the two so close together there isn’t much for him to do until Toji finishes whatever lesson he is trying to imbue.
“Every time you hold back your punches, one of your friends dies,” Toji’s voice holds a dull resentment. “That guilt you carry—from what, killing thugs?—you need to square it away. It’s doing no one any favours.” Inumaki is wriggling under Toji, and Satoru guiltily realises that he probably can’t breathe.
“Oi—”
“Shut up,” Toji cuts Satoru off, barely sparing a glance. “You’re weak because you allow yourself to be. You think I can’t see it?” Inumaki struggles harder now, and his face is turning a bright purple. The kids behind him start to move into a defensive position (what good would that do, really?), and Satoru debates using his Domain Expansion for a second to get this crazy old man off his student. “There are two types of people, runt. Those who breathe and those who rot. Which one are you going to be?”
Satoru’s seen enough—fuck this guy for hurting his kids—and crosses his fingers. Before he can chant the words of his domain, Inumaki’s hand goes slack.
The knife digs deep into his eye, squirting blood up and into Toji’s unsurprised face. Swiftly, with speed Satoru sure hasn't seen, Inumaki brings his foot, the one not pinned, up into Toji’s chest. It’s coated in dark cursed energy, blasting Toji back into the reinforced concrete opposite him. He passes through it cleanly, disappearing in the dusty aftermath. Inumaki’s loud gasps echo in the silence. Satoru is about to praise Inumaki before he realises...
The knife is still in his eye.
Satoru gets his phone out, already texting Shoko, while Yuuta skids to his side. He removes the knife, and Satoru notes the kid barely flinches as he begins to heal what he can. Satoru relaxes and can’t help but chuckle, “Well, that was tense!”
“Shut up, idiot!” Ah, Utahime. Always the one to put him in his place.
“Seems like every timeline you lose something, huh?” Yuuji says as he walks up to the crouching Yuuta and injured Inumaki. Inumaki spares him a confused glance, then watches the large hole in the wall with trepidation.
He doesn’t need to, because Toji has already moved beside Satoru once more, leaning casually against the freezing wall with his arms crossed loosely.
“You know, I spent some time with the Yakuza before I found my recent employer,” Toji is looking at his fingernails, the casual bastard. “Back then, they would always brag of this secret weapon. A boy that could twist bone and boil blood. Didn’t think much of it. Didn’t need it. Didn’t care. Not for some runt leaving bodies on territory lines. Because that’s the only thing it could be—a runt all juiced up on CE. Not my problem.” Inumaki isn’t looking at Toji anymore. He isn't looking at anyone. “I know how the Yakuza move, how they fight like oil and fire in a hot pan. You fight like Yakuza, runt.” Yuuta at Satoru, pleading for him to do something. Does Satoru even care about any of this? Not really. Toge Inumaki was once a kill-everyone-in-his-way thug. Then, Satoru made a dirty deal with his daddy dearest. Now, Toge is a jujutsu sorcerer. This was a waste of time. They only have a few days and a lot of training to get in. What was Toji getting at?
Yuuji hums, looking at Inumaki in a way Satoru is starting to hate, “Good to know.”
“Okay, so our resident cursed speech user was a bad boy,” Satoru claps three times, patronising the moment. “Why is any of this relevant?”
“You need human fodder, don’t you? "Calculated distractions; unattached sacrifices"? Strong enough to hold the front lines? That kid knows the best place to get them. Probably has a whole army of ’em.” Toji starts walking off into the next room, apparently done with the conversation, “Tell him to see his old man. I’m sure the Yakuza boss has a few names to spare for his son.”
There is an uncomfortable silence that even Satoru struggles with.
“...Toge?” Yuuta probes. Inumaki ignores everyone and moves to stand. Yuuta hovers over him protectively, arm outstretching to help, but Inumaki pushes it away forcefully.
They all watch as he walks outside, his head bowed like a beaten dog.