Rinko? Shoko!?

Kashimo ambled down the street alone, laden with shopping bags.

Seven or eight bags hung from each hand, their handles digging into his fingers until they turned white, and two unbagged jackets draped over his elbows. His mouth was occupied too: he held the handles of another three or four bags between his teeth, tilting his neck back slightly as he struggled to keep his balance. He walked like a large predator carrying its prey back to its den.

Passersby kept glancing his way.

Come on-a handsome guy over six foot three, dressed so retro he looked like he had stepped straight out of the Showa era, with shopping bags hanging from his hands and mouth and a completely unruffled expression? That was bound to draw attention. Young women covered their mouths and giggled, office workers couldn't resist turning back for another look, and one child walking a dog simply stopped in place, staring up at him with an O-shaped mouth as he passed.

Kashimo was oblivious to those looks-or rather, he simply didn't care.

Kenjaku had left after paying for his purchases. Before leaving, he had tossed out, "I'll go get your Thunder Ring back," in a casual tone, as though he were merely heading to the convenience store next door for a rice ball. Kashimo hadn't asked any questions. He had simply nodded and watched the figure in the black short-sleeved shirt disappear through the mall entrance.

As for how Kenjaku would get it back, or whether his "husband" would be easy to deal with, Kashimo couldn't be bothered to think about it.

Kenjaku had lived all these years. He would have his ways.

The June sun was still merciless, softening the asphalt beneath its heat. Kashimo wore his newly bought clothes-forced on him by Kenjaku-a dark gray short-sleeved shirt and black trousers. The fabric was light and breathable, a hundred times more comfortable than his previous rags. He strolled along the roadside toward his apartment, the clothes in his bags rustling with every step.

Occasionally, a breeze swept past, lifting the few blue-green strands across his forehead.

He narrowed his eyes and gave a muffled hum around the bags still clenched in his teeth. Whether he was lamenting how hot summers were in this era or thinking about something else was anyone's guess.

There was no hurry, anyway.

The apartment was rented, the clothes were bought, and someone was fetching the Thunder Ring.

He had waited so long four hundred years ago. A little longer now wouldn't hurt.

Kashimo walked along with the shopping bags in his mouth, idle thoughts drifting through his head.

Come to think of it, the more I think about this, the more fucking incredible it is.

Does Jin Itadori seriously have nerves of steel or what? His wife, who's been dead for years, suddenly comes back to life with a line of stitches across her forehead. Anyone else would've packed up and moved that very night. But not him. He just carries on as usual without batting an eye, and even...

Kashimo's steps faltered slightly, making the bags hanging from his mouth sway.

...even banged him.

With his superbrain working through the situation, the chain of logic couldn't have been clearer. Why was Kenjaku so eager to get the Thunder Ring back? Given how that man would take his sweet time even if the sky were falling, whatever had prompted him to volunteer, "I'll go get it back," definitely wasn't a sudden attack of conscience.

He's probably already pregnant.

Otherwise, he wouldn't be in such a hurry. Kashimo knew Kenjaku all too well. That old bastard had lived for over a thousand years. What hadn't he seen? What could possibly rattle him? Only changes inside his body-those uncontrollable hormonal signals originating from the flesh itself-could force him to pick up the pace.

He had sensed the hormonal changes and realized the time had come. Everything that needed doing had to be finished while this body could still move.

Ultimately, the Thunder Ring was just an excuse.

At that thought, Kashimo couldn't help snorting with laughter. The air from his nose made the bags in his mouth swing back and forth. Another passerby shot him a strange look, and he pretended not to notice.

Fine, fine.

He continued strolling toward his apartment, the thought still lingering in his head.

"Mister, you're so funny! Why are you carrying your gift bags like that?"

Suddenly, a clear child's voice came from beside him.

Kashimo looked down.

A little girl stood next to him, gazing up at his face. Her short hair was neat, and her eyes were round and bright, full of the innocence and curiosity unique to her age. She wore a school uniform and carried a small schoolbag, standing casually as though she had stopped to check out something unusual on her way home from school.

Most of all, there was her face: her eyes and brows, her features, the slight upward curve of her lips.

Kashimo stopped dead in his tracks.

Rinko?

Rinko!?

Something seemed to explode in his head with a boom.

Is this for real?

He took the bags out of his mouth, then crouched down, lowering his towering frame as far as he could until his eyes were level with the little girl's.

He stared at her face for a long while, an indescribable expression appearing on his handsome, purple-marked features. (The expression Gojo had when he first saw Megumi Fushiguro.)

"What's your name, little girl?"

He kept his voice very soft.

Kashimo was naturally handsome, with sharply defined features and blue eyes that looked particularly beautiful in the sunlight. Lowering that face toward a child made it easy to win them over.

Sure enough, the little girl showed no shyness. She openly tilted her head and smiled.

"My name's Shoko Ieiri. I'm thirteen."

Shoko Ieiri.

When Kashimo heard that name, it was as though someone had pressed his pause button.

He froze for two seconds, then let out a long, long breath.

Thank goodness it's Shoko, not Rinko.

For a moment, he had nearly thought he was seeing a ghost. That face, that smile, that habit of tilting her head slightly when she spoke... they were practically cast from the same mold.

You nearly made your Uncle Kashimo think he was caught in an illusion.

Wait.

Kashimo's eyes abruptly widened.

Shoko!?

Shoko Ieiri!?

He remained crouched there, his expression shifting again and again before finally settling into an extremely complicated grimace.

The thirteen-year-old girl in front of him tilted her head as she watched him, looking utterly baffled.

"Mister, you're making such a weird face."

Kashimo opened his mouth, but no words came out.