RED STRINGS | ITADORI YUJI X FEM!READER

32

The light was gone.

The curses were gone.

But Masachiro remained.

What was left of him.

You stood—barely. Legs trembling, ribs screaming with every breath. Blood still ran down your side in steady rivulets, soaked into your sleeves, congealed on your cheeks. But none of it mattered more than the figure crumpled beside you.

Masachiro.

His body was heavy with finality. Torn in places no body should be torn, chest hollowed in from where that centipede curse had ended him. But his face—somehow—was untouched. Calm. Almost like he was sleeping.

You hated that.

Because peace should come after a full life. Not like this. Not like—

You dropped to your knees beside him, pain stabbing through your thigh like broken glass, and pressed a shaky hand to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

It wasn't enough.

Your fingers curled in the tattered fabric of his uniform. It was still warm. Still him. And you knew what you had to do.

You couldn't leave him here. Not in this cursed forest. Not in pieces.

You gritted your teeth, clenched your jaw, and began to move.

Carrying a full-grown man was something even adult sorcerers would hesitate to do alone. You were thirteen. Your bones still soft, your muscles still learning what strength meant. And yet here you were, dragging the weight of a life extinguished.

You wrapped his arms over your shoulders, staggered upright, his body slumped behind you like a marionette with its strings cut. Your back screamed. Your knees buckled. His blood soaked into your clothes. Yours, too.

Each step was a negotiation between agony and determination.

The forest stretched endlessly, every root and rock conspiring to trip you. And your cursed energy—once wild and overwhelming—was now gone. Burnt out. You're just a girl now.

Just a girl... carrying a corpse through the woods, her skin torn and her eyes hollow.

You slipped—once, twice—biting your tongue every time you went down. Blood filled your mouth. You didn't spit it out. What was the point?

You whispered to him as you walked, half to him, half to yourself.

"Almost there, Masachiro-san... Just a little longer."

He didn't answer.

Of course he didn't.

But that didn't stop you.

By the time the gates of Jujutsu Headquarters came into view—looming and cold, like a verdict—you had stopped feeling your arms. Your legs moved only because you demanded it. Your vision swam. You weren't even sure if the guards at the gate were real.

They rushed toward you when they saw what you were carrying.

Voices blurred into static—shouts, orders, panic. Hands reached to take him from you, but you snarled, held on like a dog guarding a corpse.

"I'm taking him in," you hissed, blood bubbling at the corner of your mouth.

"You're hurt—!"

"I said—I'm taking him in."

And somehow, they let you.

The path through the headquarters was a haze of stares. Elders turned their heads. Students whispered. You didn't care.