Chapter 63 : Fractures in the Glass
Late evening. The training field outside Jujutsu High lay empty, painted in fading sunlight and long shadows. The trees whispered gently in the wind, casting broken silhouettes on the ground. The cicadas buzzed lazily, their summer hum almost too normal after everything.
Geto leaned against the wooden railing of the veranda, eyes fixed on the line of trees. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable.
Gojo dropped beside him with a grunt, sipping from a bottle of melon soda. He looked tired. Not physically—he never looked tired physically—but the way his shoulders sagged said everything.
"He's not back yet?" Gojo asked.
Geto shook his head. "No. Yaga said it was another high-risk mission. He left before dawn."
"Figures," Gojo muttered. He swirled the bottle in his hand. "Didn't even tell us."
"He doesn't tell anyone anymore," Geto said. "Not even Yaga. He just goes."
A silence fell between them. The sky deepened to violet as the sun sank beyond the mountains. Fireflies blinked in the dark like dying stars.
---
Later that night, they sat in the common room. The dim light from the paper lantern above cast long shadows across the wooden floor. The old clock ticked steadily, the only sound in the room.
Geto was half-reading a novel, the pages unmoving in his hand. Gojo sat upside down on the couch, head hanging over the edge, arms sprawled.
"He's changing," Gojo muttered.
"We all are," Geto replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
Gojo turned his head to look at him. "Yeah, but... it's different with him. He doesn't talk unless he has to. Doesn't crack jokes. He used to call me names just for fun. Now he barely even looks at me."
Geto slowly closed the book. "He used to get annoyed at everything. Remember when he almost threw his rice bowl at you for chewing too loud?"
Gojo laughed softly. "He still complains. But it's quieter now. Like the anger's turned inward."
"He's chasing something," Geto said. "Or running from it."
Gojo stared at the ceiling. "You think it was Riko?"
Geto nodded. "And Toji. And what happened to you. And me. And everything we couldn't stop."
Gojo picked at a thread in the couch cushion. "It almost feels like we lost him, doesn't it?"
Geto didn't answer.
---
The front gate creaked open sometime past midnight.
Rain tapped lightly on the rooftiles. Thunder rumbled in the far distance.
Geto rose silently from the floor. Gojo followed, barefoot, blindfold dangling from his fingers.
Kishibe stood just inside the gate, silhouetted by the streetlamp behind him. His coat was torn at the shoulder. Blood caked one sleeve. He reeked of smoke and something fouler—curse residue.
His blade hung at his side like dead weight.
"You're late," Gojo said, voice tight with something between concern and frustration.
Kishibe didn't respond.
"You're hurt," Geto added, eyes narrowing.
Kishibe glanced at them once. Just once. Then turned and walked inside, footsteps echoing against the hallway walls.
"He doesn't even limp," Gojo murmured.
"He doesn't want us to see him bleed," Geto replied.
They stood in silence, watching the corridor until his figure vanished into shadow.
"He doesn't want to be saved," Geto said at last.
Gojo didn't argue.
---
That night, Geto couldn't sleep. He sat on the veranda alone, a candle flickering beside him. The rain had stopped, but the world still felt damp and heavy.
He thought of Kishibe's silence. His injuries. The way his eyes had stopped reflecting light.
He remembered how they used to sit here, all three of them. Kishibe with his blade leaning against the wall. Gojo throwing peanuts at crows. Himself, sketching calligraphy with lazy strokes.
That boy was gone.
And what remained...
Geto wasn't sure it could be saved.
He lowered his head into his hands.
And somewhere in the dark, a door closed.
The sound of another wall being built.
Another line being crossed.
He wasn't sure which of them would disappear first:
Kishibe.
Or all of them.
But he felt the fracture deepening.
And he feared the day it would finally break.