𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 → jjk x m! reader

00. | in the garden of sinners.

PROLOGUE;
reminiscence of the past
chapter title taken from the song by: yuki kajiura

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"You're still not getting it, why aren't you getting it?"

Harsh and unforgiving. Those were the exact words a six-year-old [Y/n] would use to describe the man who was, unfortunately, his father.

A harsh, and broken figment of a man who never once loved him as a father should since the moment he was born into this cruel world, since the day his mother died in a bed that was dyed a little too red.

"Again, [Y/n]. Pick it up again. You are no son of mine if you continue to stumble around like this. This is pathetic! You are pathetic."

An unforgiving man with a relentless sense of perfection. That was the image—the mask his father would put on in front of everyone with no exception. And for that, no matter what, the most pathetic man in [Y/n]'s eyes would always be his father.

[Y/n]'s family, his clan—the [L/n]'s were once one of, if not, the most respected clans to exist, standing right beside the names of Gojo and Zenin, shoulder to shoulder.

But for many long years, centuries even, there was not even one sign of the clan's inherited technique manifesting in anyone. And maybe, to make things even worse, the clan's power was waning each and every year, growing weaker and weaker.

A fallen clan, naught to be respected but to be laughed at. They had become a cautionary tale for the other clans of how low a once respected clan could go.

His father, the head of the clan, wasn't as strong as the others from each clan, and that made him all the worse, all the more pathetic. They called him weak. They called him a humiliation.

[Y/n] agreed with all those things, but not for the same reason. He never voiced anything out, though.

Because he wasn't strong, not yet anyway. Even though his grandfather said he had the potential to house the inherited technique, it still had yet to appear.

It would, one day, but he had to wait. He had to be a patient boy, even when time ran short, even as sand slipped through the hourglass.

The sun had dipped below the horizon when their training finally came to an end. There was so much sweat that his clothes clung to his body like a second skin.

Today was training as usual. Loud yells came from his father's lips, sharp pain blossomed from his entire body, and a headache rang inside his head.

Today was training as usual, or so he thought.

[Y/n] breathed heavily, filling air into his lungs like a dying man as he looked down at his hands; trembling, blistered, and marred by splinters from the usual intense practice with his father.

None of that was the problem.

The problem, lay on his torso—a deep gash, oozing blood at an alarming rate. He might die from this, he thought in chilling horror, his breath quickening at the realization.

"Father," he called out to the only person in the room with him, his voice desperate and quivering. "I need immediate medical attention, please."

"No."

Father's answer was cold and unyielding. "Injuries are a part of training, they exist to weed out the weak." And here [Y/n] thought he had already seen everything from his father.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

He had always given it his all. Pushed himself to the brink every time they trained, always. But still, here he was, abandoned by the person who should have cared.