Kashimo stood up and surveyed his surroundings from above.
"So, little Shoko," he said, making his voice a little more casual and trying his best not to look suspicious, "where's your parent?"
Shoko pursed her lips and tipped her chin in a certain direction, her expression carrying a little impatience that said, "Can't you look for yourself?"
Kashimo followed her gaze.
A middle-aged man in a gray suit was standing in line at a crepe stall not far away. His suit was the sort you could find anywhere, his tie was neatly knotted, and he carried a briefcase in one hand. His leather shoes were reasonably clean. Standing in the middle of the line, he occasionally rose onto his toes to look ahead. Even from behind, he radiated the bone-deep air of an overworked office drone.
Kashimo felt a little sheepish.
That's a textbook Japanese office-worker outfit... the kind that disappears without a trace three seconds after stepping into a crowd.
"Dad just picked me up from school," Shoko's voice drifted over from beside him, her tone matter-of-fact. "I wanted a crepe, so he went to line up for one. He told me to play nearby for a bit and not go too far."
Kashimo glanced down at her. The girl spoke so casually that she was clearly long accustomed to this routine of having her father line up for snacks after school. She stood with her backpack straps hanging loosely from her shoulders, idly tapping her toes against the ground. Her gaze had already wandered toward the crepe stall, probably as she considered which flavor to get.
Kashimo raised his eyebrows.
After school? Then she probably hasn't discovered her own innate cursed technique yet.
Looking at Shoko's still-childish face, he mentally ran through the timeline. At this age, attending an ordinary middle school, with a parent still picking her up afterward, Jujutsu Society clearly hadn't come knocking yet. A rare talent like Reverse Cursed Technique probably wouldn't be discovered for another few years. Then she would be recruited into Jujutsu High and set out on a path entirely different from an ordinary person's.
For now, though, she was just a thirteen-year-old girl who wanted a crepe.
Kashimo rearranged the shopping bags in his hands, freeing one hand to slip into his pocket, and took his eyes off the gray suit.
"Your dad's pretty patient," he remarked casually, his tone giving no hint whether it was wistfulness or something else.
Shoko didn't answer. She only tilted her head and looked at him, her bright, round eyes holding a measure of scrutiny along with a child's particular curiosity.
"Mister, you bought a lot of clothes."
"Yeah."
"Are you a model? You're so tall."
"...No."
"Then what do you do?"
Kashimo looked down at that vaguely familiar face and fell silent for a second.
"I'm unemployed."
Shoko blinked, apparently finding the idea of a good-looking unemployed man carrying an armful of designer shopping bags a little beyond her understanding. But she didn't press him. She just said, "Oh," and turned her attention back to the crepe stall.
Kashimo stood beside her, one adult and one child quietly waiting under the June sunshine for the man in the gray suit to return with the crepe.
Before long, the man in the gray suit finished buying the crepe and turned toward them. He held the paper bag containing it in one hand and still clutched his change in the other, walking with an office worker's habitual haste.
"Shoko-" When he reached them, he handed over the crepe before noticing the young man beside her, who stood more than a full head taller than him. His gaze lingered on Kashimo. "Here you go. And who's this?"
Kashimo was about to speak, but before he could get out the words "I was just passing by," Shoko beat him to it, her tone light.
"He's a weird mister I just met."
"..." The corner of Kashimo's mouth twitched.
"Oh, I see." The man adjusted the glasses on his nose, put on a standard social smile, and gave a slight bow. "Hello, hello. Sorry if our Shoko's been any trouble."
"No trouble," Kashimo said evenly, looking down at the middle-aged man who was considerably shorter than him. "We just happened to meet."
The man nodded. His gaze swept over the pile of shopping bags in Kashimo's hands, then took in his conspicuous cyan hair and the purple markings extending from the corners of his eyes. His smile remained polite, but his eyes clearly held a little more of the question, "Who exactly is this guy?" Still, he didn't ask. He simply turned to Shoko.
"Let's go. Mom's waiting at home."
Shoko took a bite of her crepe, getting cream on the corner of her mouth, and gave a muffled "Mm." She glanced up at Kashimo, then lowered her head to keep eating, following her father toward the other side of the street with small steps.
After a few steps, she looked back, still chewing her crepe, her voice muffled.
"Bye, weird mister."
Kashimo stood where he was, watching that small, uniformed figure follow the man in the gray suit farther and farther away until they disappeared into the crowd at the street corner.
The June sunlight was as scorching as ever.
He gave a snort, took several bag handles between his teeth again, and resumed walking toward the apartment.
The bags swung back and forth, just as before.
It wasn't until dusk that Kashimo reached the apartment.
The June sunset painted the entire street a warm orange. Carrying a heap of shopping bags, he ambled from one end of the street to the other before finally stopping in front of an unremarkable apartment building. It was three stories tall, with grayish-white exterior walls and matching mailboxes outside every unit. The place Kenjaku had rented for him was on the second floor.
Kashimo stood below the building and looked up. The sunset fell across his face, softening the purple markings in its light. He took a deep breath, thinking that he had finally made it. The bag handles were practically cutting his hands off.
He set his bags on the ground for a moment and freed his right hand to check his pocket.
His pocket.
Empty.
He froze for a moment, then checked the other side.
Still empty.
Kashimo's hand stiffened inside his pocket, and the exhaustion on his face slowly gave way to a sense of foreboding. He looked down at himself. These were newly bought trousers. Kenjaku had rushed him that morning, so he had simply pulled them on and left.
The key.
The key to the apartment.
He stood there and rewound his memories of everything since leaving home that day. Going out, browsing the mall, buying clothes, paying by card, carrying bags, meeting Shoko on the street, and then... then he had walked straight back. He hadn't touched a key at any point.
Kenjaku had had the key all along.
Kashimo slowly closed his eyes, a vein twitching at his temple.
Four hundred years ago, he had been the strongest Thunder God, striking terror into all of Jujutsu Society. Four hundred years later, he stood beneath an ordinary apartment building with more than a dozen bags of new clothes, unable to find a single key anywhere on his person.
He remained silent for a long time.
The sunset stretched his shadow long, very long, while the outlines of his shopping bags cast a sprawling tangle of shadows across the ground.
"...Fuck."
He muttered the single curse under his breath, the sound dull and muffled, scattered at the stairwell entrance by the evening breeze.
Kashimo bent down, picked up the bags again, and turned toward the apartment building's exterior staircase. He climbed the metal stairs, every step clanging loudly, as though he were taking his anger out on the building. Once he reached the second floor, he set the bags outside his apartment and plopped down.
With his back against the door, his legs stretched out, and shopping bags piled around his feet, he slumped into a heap.
He looked up at the unlit motion-sensor light on the corridor ceiling, several thoughts running through his head. Call Kenjaku? I don't have a phone. Go find Kenjaku? I don't know where he is right now. Pick the lock? He had known how to pick locks four hundred years ago, but those had been locks on old wooden doors.
After a couple of looks at this building's security door, he gave up.
Kashimo stared blankly at the white wall opposite him for a while. Finally, he let out a long breath through his nose, tipped his head back in resignation, and closed his eyes against the door.
The sunset shone through the window at the end of the corridor, falling over him and bathing his cyan hair in warm hues.
The great Thunder God Kashimo, the strongest of four hundred years ago, a legend of Jujutsu Society.
At that moment, he was slumped in the corridor outside his own apartment like a college student who had forgotten his keys, waiting for someone else to open the door.
P.S. I still need to patch this up: Heavenly Restriction absolutely develops in stages. Toji nearly died when he was thrown into a horde of cursed spirits at fourteen, so isn't it perfectly normal for Rinko's physical strength not to be that great at fourteen either? A large part of Toji's strength came from fighting. Heavenly Restriction merely gave him a higher starting point and greater potential. And as for awakening, that word really was only used for embellishment and to make it easier for you to understand.