I am weak

Blood seeped through Yan Si's fingers.

It did not fall drop by drop, but formed a thin, steady red line.

It wound down over the knuckles on the back of his hand, around his wrist, and into his rolled-up sleeve.

He pressed his palm against the bridge of his nose, his fingertips resting at the corner of his eye, but he could not hold back the blood.

The moment he lifted his hand slightly, blood welled over the edge of his palm, passed its heel, traced a slender line down the inside of his wrist, and finally vanished deep inside his sleeve.

Satoru Gojo froze where he stood.

His white hair still swayed slightly from the momentum of his landing, and his sunglasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, leaving both azure eyes fully exposed.

He watched the red steadily spilling through Yan Si's fingers, watched that line of blood advance at an even pace over his excessively pale skin.

Yan Si slowly raised his eyes.

His stunning purple eyes brimmed with tears.

Tears coated their surface, washing the color clear and wet. Tiny droplets had already gathered at the roots of his lashes, poised to fall.

It was impossible to tell whether he was crying or simply experiencing a reflexive reaction to the blow to his nose.

But anyone who saw his face just then would not have stopped to rationally analyze the cause of his tears.

His face was pale, his eyes faintly rimmed with red, tears glistening in their depths.

"It hurts..."

The final note of his Kansai dialect trembled faintly, very softly.

"Drip-"

The first tear landed on the cafeteria floor.

That sound should have been impossible to hear, but they were all Jujutsu Sorcerers. Satoru Gojo heard it, and Suguru Geto heard it.

Then Satoru Gojo saw Yan Si lower his eyes, his lashes fluttering gently before lifting again, those tear-blurred eyes looking toward him through his own bloodstained fingers.

There was no blame, no anger.

Satoru Gojo felt as though he had been frozen even longer.

He stared at Yan Si's face, all the glib lines that usually raced through his mind-

From "What's the big deal?" to "I didn't mean to."

They all collided at the back of his tongue, and not a single word made it out.

No one had taught him how to handle a situation like this.

A fight? He was good at that.

Trading insults? He was even better.

Letting things go in one ear and out the other? Professional level.

But a classmate who had been trading nicknames with him just moments ago had suddenly been knocked into a nosebleed by him.

And then, with tears in his eyes, he had told him, "It hurts."

He did not know what to do.

Satoru Gojo bent down and slowly lowered Yan Si from his shoulder.

His movements were gentle, so gentle they bore no resemblance to his carefree manner on the training grounds.

He even remembered to support the back of Yan Si's head, his fingers brushing the loose black hair. It felt lovely; its owner took very good care of it.

Once he had set him down securely, he slowly turned his head.

Suguru Geto had already come over.

His steps were steady, but quicker than usual.

He did not look at Satoru Gojo, instead reaching out directly.

Not to pat a shoulder or ask what had happened, but to pull away the hand Yan Si was holding over his nose.

Blood clung between his palm and the bridge of his nose, drawing out a thin strand as his hand was moved aside.

Suguru Geto lowered his head and checked the injury: the bridge of his nose was not crooked, and although the bleeding looked heavy, it was not increasing. The capillaries inside his nose had ruptured, but it was not serious.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it, and laid the whole thing over Yan Si's face.

Fresh from his pocket, the handkerchief still held his body heat.

"Hold this down."

His tone was level, but he did not immediately withdraw the hand pressing down on the cloth.

He pressed Yan Si's fingers onto the handkerchief one by one, only letting go once he was sure he had a firm grip.

Not far away, Shoko stopped walking.

She had been waiting near the classroom building for Satoru Gojo to carry Yan Si over, drop him, or create some other problem that required her intervention.

But she had waited ages, and neither of them had arrived.

She chewed on the bare lollipop stick. The mint flavor had long since faded, leaving only the sensation of plastic being ground repeatedly between her teeth.

She pushed open the cafeteria door to see what had happened.

Then she saw Yan Si sitting on the floor, half his face covered by a white handkerchief, the other half exposed.

A small patch of red seeped through the edge of the cloth. His lashes were wet, the corners of his eyes flushed, and tears hung from the tips of his lashes, refracting tiny flecks of light beneath the overhead lamps.

Framed by blood and tears, his face looked fragile and clean, beautiful to an almost unreasonable degree.

Shoko's feet automatically carried her a step forward.

As a Reverse Cursed Technique user, the instinct to intervene at the sight of an injury had already been etched into her muscle memory.

Healing was like picking up a glass of water to her. She did not need to think; her hand would reach out on its own.

After two steps, she stopped.

She looked into Yan Si's tear-blurred eyes and caught a hint of something odd in the gap between one moment and the next.

Then she remembered.

Yan Si also had Reverse Cursed Technique.

A Reverse Cursed Technique that could be directed outward could also be directed inward, used on oneself. His was much the same as Shoko's.

As Yaga had put it, "You could count them on one hand across the entire Jujutsu Society."

Even if his body were pierced through, he could heal in seconds. Something like a nosebleed would take him only a single breath to stop.

He would not even need to expend much cursed energy.

Why wasn't he using it?

Shoko halted.

She shifted the lollipop stick from the left corner of her mouth to the right, folded her arms across her chest, and leaned against the cafeteria doorframe.

Her dark brown eyes narrowed slightly, the beauty mark at the corner of her eye lifting with the movement.

Then she saw it.

Between Yan Si's blinks, a trace of amusement flashed through those purple eyes washed clear by tears.

It vanished almost instantly, like a fish flashing its white belly beneath the water before sinking again. But Shoko had seen it.

This scumbag was just toying with Gojo.

Shoko took back the two steps she had instinctively advanced, shifted her weight onto her other leg, and settled into a more comfortable lean. She decided to be nothing more than a spectator.

Yan Si held down the handkerchief and lowered his head.

The fabric had absorbed most of the blood, and what remained slowly congealed into thin, dark red lines between his fingers.

His eyes were downcast, his wet lashes clumped into little clusters as clear tears rolled from the corners of his eyes one after another.

These were not the tears of someone sobbing uncontrollably. There were simply too many to hold, so they fell one drop at a time.

Yan Si was certain that this scene looked absolutely beautiful.

Ah, I really want to take a picture.

No.

I have to keep acting.

The handkerchief soaked up the blood on his face, but could not catch his falling tears.

His Kansai dialect emerged from beneath the cloth. "I know I'm weak..."

Satoru Gojo's eyebrows twitched.

"My total cursed energy is the lowest in our year, I can't control it properly, and I even have a constitution that attracts Cursed Spirits..."

His voice was muffled, carrying the distinctive stuffy sound of a nose clogged with blood, yet its final notes still rose in that habitual lilt.

Yan Si moved the handkerchief slightly away, revealing half his face. His nosebleed had almost stopped, but the lingering streaks of blood mingled with his tears. The corners of his mouth strained into a faint curve, as though he were forcing a smile through his pain, when he was actually struggling not to break character.

"You're all strong. It's only natural for the strong to hate the weak."

Suddenly, everything fell silent.

"Gojo."

Yan Si raised his head and looked at Satoru Gojo, his purple eyes faintly red.

He said "Gojo," not "Dead Cat," not "White-Haired Cat," not "Hey."

He had even added an honorific for the first time.

That form of address sent a chill down the back of Satoru Gojo's neck.

When Yan Si called him "Dead Cat," he only found it funny. Being called "Gojo" instead made his palms start to sweat.