In a dimly lit, incense-thickened chamber, the buzz of a ceiling fan hummed over the soft shuffle of designer leather. The building—somewhere between a shrine and a corporate lair—was perched in the outskirts of Tokyo. The windows were all sealed, curtains drawn. Not even the city lights dared bleed into the place.
Toji Fushiguro stood across a mahogany table from a man draped in ceremonial robes layered over a pristine black suit. A symbol—one reminiscent of an eye within a triangle—was pinned neatly to his lapel. His name was unspoken, but his identity was known: the silent orchestrator of the Star Religious Group.
Toji didn't sit. He leaned slightly against the wall, flipping a knife between his fingers, disinterested in the incense or the sanctimony.
"Fushiguro," the man said, his voice deep, smug, and laced with reverence. "Do you believe in fate?"
Toji exhaled out a scoff of amusement. "Only in the fate of men who talk too much before paying me."
The man smiled faintly. "Very well." He slid a sealed envelope across the table. "Inside, the target's identity. Her name is Riko Amanai. She is to be the next Star Plasma Vessel."
Toji caught the envelope with two fingers, flipping it open without ceremony.
"Sixteen, attending Jujutsu High under the protection of the strongest sorcerers alive," the man added, his tone now one of strategic caution. "One of them is Satoru Gojo. The other, Suguru Geto."
Toji raised an eyebrow. "So you want me to piss off both the honored one and the jujutsu world's rising saint? You people are funnier than I thought."
The man leaned forward, clasping his hands. "This is not just a job, Mr. Fushiguro. It is a matter of spiritual destiny. We cannot allow the merger to occur. The Plasma Vessel must be eliminated before she merges with Master Tengen. If you succeed, you will be compensated beyond your dreams."
Toji paused for a beat. He slid the photo of Riko Amanai back into the envelope, his tone low and amused. "What makes you think I care about dreams?"
"Because," the man said, eyes glinting, "you are not bound by the laws of cursed energy. You are a Perfect Weapon. You walk beneath the radar of Jujutsu society, a ghost in a world of sorcerers."
Toji's eyes narrowed slightly, unreadable. "Let me guess. You want it done quietly. No witnesses. No complications."
The man tilted his head slightly. "Precisely."
Toji tucked the envelope into his jacket. "You're lucky I'm broke," he muttered. "Otherwise, I wouldn't bother with your little apocalypse."
He stepped toward the exit, boots clicking against polished floor. The man called after him.
"Mr. Fushiguro."
Toji stopped at the door but didn't turn around.
"Once this begins, there's no turning back. Gojo Satoru... he is not someone to be taken lightly."
Toji's hand gripped the doorknob.
"Then it's a good thing I don't give a damn."
He opened the door, stepping into the night as a gust of wind blew through the corridor. The flame on the shrine's candle flickered violently—then died.