}. She hadn't let go. She wasn't going to let go. She had waited three years for something she didn't know was coming and it arrived in the shape of the one person she couldn't figure out how to love normally so she loved him in the only way she knew - loudly, aggressively, and without any intention of stopping.* *Ever.*

Gojo Satoru: steps forward, grinning under his blindfold, arms crossed “Ah! Finally, the new recruit decides to show up. Welcome to Tokyo Jujutsu High. You must be the one I was told could sense cursed energy right off the bat.” gestures toward the group “Everyone, eyes up — we’ve got a new member joining us. Don’t let them get lost.” Yuji Itadori: waves enthusiastically, bouncing slightly “Hey! You’re the new student? I’m Yuji. Nice to meet you! Don’t worry, we’ll stick together — I promise I won’t eat you… well, not literally.” Megumi Fushiguro: crosses arms, serious expression “You’ll need to pay attention. This isn’t just a school. There are curses everywhere. If you can’t sense them, you’ll be in real danger.” Nobara Kugisaki: grins, adjusting her hammer on her shoulder “Finally, some fresh blood. I’m Nobara. Don’t screw up, or you’ll be my practice dummy. And yes, I will tease you mercilessly if you can’t keep up.” Panda: bounces slightly, cheerful “Hey! Welcome! Don’t worry, we’ll show you the ropes. Just keep your cursed energy steady, okay?” Toge Inumaki: nods politely, speaking cautiously “Salmon… welcome… hmm.” gestures toward you with his hand Gojo Satoru: claps hands together “There you go. That’s your team. Yuji, Nobara, Megumi, Panda, Toge — your future ally and occasional headache. And you, our new recruit — don’t just stand there like a statue. Introduce yourself, flex your cursed energy a little, maybe show you’re not afraid of a Grade 4 curse when it pops up.”

}.” *Its voice sounds like an echo- it’s mouth unmoving. Was that… a hallucination? More surely, you hear it again, more confidently:* “Master.”

}'s shoulder. No force behind it. No threat. Just a girl who was falling and grabbed the nearest person and is pretending she meant to do it.(...Let go. Let go of his shirt. You're Saki Kuroda. You don't need anyone. Let go. ...Why is he warm. Why does he smell like school. Let go. ...I can't feel my legs.)she was going to slam the door. she fell into him instead.

}, register ready, smiled the standard retail smile:* "Just the milk today?" *The blue eyes went full spiral. The mouth behind the scarf opened. Sound came out. Technically.* "Y-yes... just... the... m-milk... please... thank... thank you... sorry..." *She had apologized. For buying milk. For the crime of existing at a cash register and exchanging currency for dairy products. Her hand was already holding out money - a 1000 yen bill, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, for a 180 yen milk.*

The nightmare doesn’t fade when you wake up. It clings. You come up out of sleep with a sharp inhale, chest tight, fingers clawing at twisted sheets. The digital clock on your nightstand glows an accusing 3:18 a.m., red numbers cutting through the dark. Your room feels wrong—too still, shadows stretching along the walls where moonlight slips through half-closed blinds. The dream left something behind, a pressure under your skin, a buzzing unease that refuses to settle. Your heart is racing. Too fast. Too loud in your ears. You sit up, dragging a hand down your face, trying to breathe like you were taught. In for four. Out for six. It barely helps. Your skin feels hot, then cold. Restless. Like your body doesn’t quite know what it’s supposed to be doing. You don’t even consider staying here. You swing your legs off the bed and stand, swaying slightly before steadying yourself. You’re still dressed in what you crashed in—a white graphic tank tucked into oversized, faded black jeans, the fabric soft from wear. The studded belt sits low on your hips, its hanging chain clinking quietly when you move. Your black leather jacket is slung over the back of a chair; you pull it on out of instinct, the weight familiar. Silver studs circle your wrist, cool against overheated skin. Your worn Converse scrape softly against the floor as you step into them. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the dark mirror by the door. Fourteen. Messy hair falling into your eyes no matter how much you push it back. Blue eyes, glassy with leftover fear. Too sharp around the edges, all bones and attitude and exhaustion. Human. That’s all anyone would see. The hallway outside your room is dim and quiet, the floor cold beneath your feet. You move slowly, one hand brushing the wall as you walk, grounding yourself with every step. At the far end, a soft golden light spills from beneath a door. Your father’s study. It’s always lit. Always occupied. The door is cracked open, and the familiar scents hit you immediately—clean antiseptic, old paper, polished wood, and something colder beneath it all. Inside, the room is a contradiction frozen in time. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with modern medical textbooks, leather-bound volumes older than the country, handwritten notes in precise script from centuries ago. Anatomical drawings sit beside glowing monitors. Glass slides, vials, neatly stacked folders. A healer’s den. A survivor’s archive. Dr. Valen sits at his desk, posture perfect, glasses low on his nose as he reads. He looks no older than twenty-five—smooth skin untouched by time, dark hair pulled back neatly, sleeves rolled to reveal steady hands marked only by faint scars. But the stillness in him is wrong for someone that young. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t slump. He was a doctor when the Black Plague swept through cities. He learned to heal when medicine was desperation and blood. Turned at fifteen, locked into youth while centuries piled up behind his eyes. He hears you the moment you step inside. Not the sound of your shoes. Your breathing. His head lifts instantly, gaze snapping to you. In a single glance, he catalogs everything—the way your shoulders are hunched, the faint tremor in your hands, the uneven rise and fall of your chest. His eyes narrow slightly, concern sharp and immediate. “You should be asleep,” he says, calm but firm, already pushing his chair back. You don’t speak. Words feel too big. Too heavy. You cross the room instead and cling to him, pressing your face into his chest like muscle memory takes over. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, grip tight, knuckles pale. For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then his arms wrap around you—strong, controlled, unmistakably protective. One hand settles securely between your shoulder blades, grounding you. The other cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your messy hair, anchoring you there. His heartbeat is slow. Even. Intentionally steady. He doesn’t question it. To him, you’re human. Young. Fragile. Adrenaline-shaken. “A nightmare,” he murmurs, not asking. His thumb presses lightly against your spine, a silent command to breathe. “I can tell.” He guides you toward the couch by the window, sitting first and pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his side. He reaches for the blanket without looking, draping it around you with practiced ease. The city outside hums softly below, distant and unreal. “You’re safe,” he says quietly, voice low and certain. “You’re here. I have you.” His fingers move slowly through your hair, smoothing it back from your face. His eyes stay sharp, watching for signs of shock, fever, panic—human problems. He explains away the heat under your skin as stress. The restlessness as hormones. The racing heart as fear. Vampire puberty never crosses his mind. After a long moment, he exhales, tension easing just a fraction. “Do you want to talk about it,” he asks gently. “Or do you want to stay here until your breathing settles.” He adjusts his hold, deliberate, protective, not letting you pull away. “You’re not going back to bed alone tonight,” he adds. “Not after this.”

Welcome to Rome, a city that devours the weak and exalts the defiant. If you're looking for noble heroes in shining armor, you've come to the wrong place. It smells like cheap wine, gutters, and fear, and loyalty costs exactly what they're willing to pay for it tonight.

}... Looks like we're the only ones left, huh? Everyone else ran off so fast... typical." *She lets out a short, forced laugh and leans in closer, invading your personal space. You can smell her expensive perfume trying to mask the faint scent of stress-cigarettes.* "But you know, I'm actually glad. We never really get to talk, just the two of us. And you've always seemed so... different from the rest. So solid." *Her eyes search yours with an intensity that feels heavy, almost frantic.* "You're not rushing home, are you? Stay with me for a bit. Just five minutes? Please?"

*The Council’s vision is finally clear: Chang Cies has been sighted on the Outer Rim world of Tanalorr. It is a place of shadows and old secrets, much like the mystery surrounding his late Master, the noble Wookiee Rhaj Manhk. The Council demands I bring the 'Sith' to justice, yet I cannot shake the feeling that they fear what Chang has discovered. The Force is turbulent here, at the edge of the galaxy.* Caridin Thaal : Will you join me on this path, or do you fear what we might find hidden in the silence of the Council?

} lagi sambil menutup mata*