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Your room at Jujutsu Tech is plain, but nice. It's at the end of a long hallway that reminds you a little bit of a horror movie. You hate the hallway—you're not a big fan of the dark, not after your attack, and it's barely lit. But you don't have any choice. It's not like you could ask them to switch your room; this isn't a vacation. You're lucky they're not even charging rent.
No, you remind yourself. This is their fault. Free room and board was the least they could offer.
In a way, you feel like one of those unlucky mice used for science experiments. Gojo had been very clear—you were safer at Jujutsu Tech, but you were being kept until they could learn how you fit into the Sukuna's plan. You won't let yourself forget that; you have a tendency to look for the best in others, but in a situation like this it made much more sense to assume the worst.
You'd spent the first week holed up in your room, bored to death with nothing to do. To replace your beloved phone, which you hadn't seen since being attacked, was an ancient-looking flip phone that you didn't even know how to use. There was no computer or tablet either—so basically no way to reach the outside world or entertain yourself. It made sense, you guessed, if you didn't want to be tracked down, but you also doubted that curses were using airwaves to pinpoint where you'd hidden. The only thing you looked forward to were the three meals delivered to your door at the start of every day, neatly portioned out into a breakfast, lunch, and dinner with dessert.
There were a couple of volumes of manga scattered around (none in order) and thin, dusty volumes that you think are manuals. It takes two days to tear through the manga, and a third to reread them. You'd tried staring at the wall and counting the bricks in the wall before accepting the inevitable and cracking open the manuals. The print is surprisingly modern, considering you'd thought these were ancient texts. They turn out to be regular old books about curses. You can't tell if this was just some old student's room they hadn't renovated, or if the higher ups were expecting you to study during your stay.
You study the books, not because you should but because there's literally nothing else to do. Between cracking open the books and a bout of psychosis—well, you'd been a student before. You could act like a student again. A secondary search of your room turns up a notebook and an old pen that almost doesn't work until you wet the nib between your lips. You pretend to be a professor, teaching the single stuffed animal you were bunking with all about cursed energy and exorcism techniques and the different kinds of curses. Half of it sounds like gibberish, but it's fun. You don't feel as alone.
Until you remember you're an adult, talking to a stuffed animal like it could talk back.
One week after you'd moved into your new room, someone knocks at the door. You check your breath and make sure your hair is presentable, smoothing down your clothes, before you answer. You try to look nonchalant, but you can't help the way you light up when you recognize Shoko. (You're still mad.) (But of everyone who'd lied to you, she'd been the closest to honest.)
