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“It’s a mess,” Yuji whispered.

Gojo snapped his fingers. The dust didn’t vanish. The mold didn’t disappear. But the air shifted. The oppressive weight of cursed energy—the memory of violence—thinned, just a little.

Yuji stared. “Why?”

His hands trembled.

And Yuji, for the first time in a very long time, replied, “I’m home.” Home RESULT FOR- JUJUTSU

Yuji’s throat closed up. He looked around the dusty, moldy, broken-down little apartment. And for the first time since Sukuna had ripped control away from him, since he’d watched Nanami die, since he’d heard Nobara’s scream—he felt a crack in the wall he’d built around his heart.

The rain over Tokyo was a constant, weary sigh. Yuji Itadori stood outside the worn-down apartment building, the one with the chipped green paint and the always-broken intercom system. It didn’t look like much, but to him, it was the center of the universe. “It’s a mess,” Yuji whispered

Now, it felt like a cursed object. Every shadow held a memory. The corner where his grandfather’s oxygen tank used to sit. The scuff mark on the floor from Yuji’s wrestling practice shoes. The faint smell of miso soup, ghosting through the years.