Chapter Text
Showlights sparkled all across the stage — blinding, searing, endless, and most importantly, glorious.
The crowd screamed his name like a chant meant to summon a god without realizing they were in the presence of one closest to it.
“GOJO SATORU! GOJO SATORU! GOJO SATORU! GOJO SATORU! GOJO SATORU! ”
And so he did what he always did best — flashed that dazzling, arrogant smile that is so full of life in the fakest way possible.
With it, the screams grew louder and hungrier with worshipful intent.
How ironic, he thought.
To think he ended up in a world like this, after death.
He had expected nothingness — eternal dark, a merciful quiet.
Instead, he got this.
Three years earlier, Gojo Satoru had died.
Sliced down by the curse king Sukuna wearing Megumi’s face — a sight that still burned through his final moments.
He hadn’t regretted dying — if anything, he’d felt a strange relief. What he hated was that his only regret had been leaving Megumi trapped, hoping at least his corpse might serve some purpose when it fell.
But death didn’t stick.
Not for him. Never for him.
*SPLASH
He woke with a gasp, bursting through the surface of water.
Cold.
Choking.
Alive.
He coughed until his lungs burned, until the environment came into focus — a dingy, cramped bathroom with yellowed tiles and a bathtub tinged red, the water around him swirling into a pinkish hue. The air reeked of iron and rot.
It didn’t take a genius to see what had happened.
A bathtub. Blood. Slashed wrists.
“What a cliché way to go,” he muttered hoarsely, a bitter laugh catching in his throat.
But the humor died the moment the memories hit — flooding in like waves that weren’t his, yet felt uncomfortably familiar.
Too vivid. Too real.
Scenes he shouldn’t remember — pain no kid should ever have to feel.
Ugly emotions, twisted shame, and that same self-loathing that always finds a way to stick.
It wasn’t his past, but damn if it didn’t feel like looking in a mirror.
He staggered out of the tub, trembling, clutching the sink for balance.
The reflection in the mirror showed him a nostalgic face: a pale, skinny teenager, with hollow cheeks and big, vibrant diamond eyes staring back.
“...How?” he whispered, brain racing at light speed — though honestly, even he couldn’t make sense of this mess.
‘An alternate universe?’ The thought flickered through his mind — no evidence, no logic, just that irritating itch of intuition he’d learned not to ignore.
Silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating.
Then, he laughed.
A short, broken laugh that cracked into sobs before he could stop it.
He laughed at the cruel absurdity of it all — how he didn’t even feel glad to be alive.
Again, it was poetic how he mirrored the boy’s despair, the same emptiness that had driven this kid to take his own life.
And so he cried — for the child whose pain had ended him here, and for the man who was unfairy bought here in his place. And so he lit two candles.
One for what was lost, and one for what should never have been.
When the tears finally dried, the silence pressed in again.
“Ahh—feels like shit,” he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the bloody bathwater swirling down the drain. The tiles were cold under his feet, the air thick with the stench of iron and mildew. He grabbed the nearest rag and started scrubbing out the tub, each motion mechanical, as if cleaning could somehow wash away the absurdity of it all.
It was an old house — worn down by time, weathered at the edges — but Gojo could tell it had once been cared for. Loved, even. Someone had tried to keep it alive for as long as they could. That much lingered in the air, in the way the decay hadn’t fully claimed everything yet.
The kid remembered it too. A small boy living here with his grandmother, holding onto the warmth of those days until she died… and then came the filth. People who shouldn’t have walked through these doors, let alone made this place theirs.
Gojo didn’t blame the kid for the visceral reaction his body had just thinking about them; Gojo himself felt his stomach twist at the thought. Some people were just rot wearing human skin.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the feeling back down, and kept wiping away the last of the bloodstains. One problem at a time.
When the bathroom looked barely less miserable, he turned on the shower and stepped under the freezing water. The shock of cold made his breath stutter — it felt good, almost grounding. The sensation of water against his skin reminded him he was still alive, even if he didn’t ask to be.
After a long while, he emerged and wandered into the main room — if you could even call it that.
A single dingy room greeted him, cluttered and suffocating. Crumpled instant ramen cups were stacked like small towers on the table. The floor was carpeted in dirty laundry, old receipts, and unpaid bills. A stained mattress lay slumped against the wall, its blanket half-off and crusted with something he didn’t want to identify.
One pot of half-eaten ramen sat cold in the corner, as if waiting for someone who’d never come back.
“Kid…” Gojo muttered in a tired but not surprised tone, surveying the chaos. “This isn’t living. This is—”
He stopped mid-sentence when it hit him.
The scent.
It was faint at first — something warm, sweet, and unbearably sad. Then it slammed into him like a bomb. His head spun, his body reacting before his brain caught up.
“Ah, crap. I almost forgot about this,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Because this wasn’t just any alternate universe — this was that kind of universe.
In this world, everyone comes with a little “bonus feature.” A secondary gender.
Alphas. Betas. Omegas.
Alphas — the born leaders. The self-proclaimed top dogs. Powerful, dominant, usually loud about it.
Betas — the average folks. Basically, normal humans, like how everyone used to be in his old world.
And Omegas — the fragile, pretty things with instincts and biology that screamed handle with care.
And guess what? He’s an O-fucking-mega now. Because the universe clearly has a sense of humor.
Gojo almost laughed at his own thought.
In his old life, he’d been the strongest — a literal walking calamity. Now? He was the universe’s definition of “fragile.”
He sniffed again, grimacing as the faint sweetness of distressed omega scent filled the air. It was clinging to the walls, soaked into the sheets — a silent scream of pain that never had the chance to leave the boy’s throat.
“Damn…” he murmured, shaking his head. “You really went through shit, huh?”
He paused, eyes softening just a fraction.
“…But that ends now. We’re starting fresh. And whatever’s left of you—” he tapped a hand lightly to the kid’s chest, “—I’ll make sure it’s something worth holding on to.”
He threw the windows open, letting the freezing night air rush in. The wind bit at his skin, carrying away that heavy scent of despair bit by bit. He moved around the room, cleaning without really thinking, tossing trash into piles, scrubbing what he could, opening drawers just to make sure there weren’t any more ghosts hiding inside.
By the time he was done, his hands were trembling, his lungs finally able to breathe something that didn’t smell like sadness. The place was still far from clean, but at least it looked like someone might live here instead of die here.
He dropped onto the mattress, exhaling a long sigh. For the first time since waking up, silence filled the room — uncomfortable but real.
‘Wow, look at me— The Gojo Satoru, defeated by dirt,’ he thought, flopping down to cool off.
Then, right on cue, the universe reminded him it wasn’t done playing its joke.
His phone buzzed on the floor. A cracked screen lit up with a text.
Boss: “Are you coming this shift or not?”
Gojo blinked at it for a few seconds, expression blank.
“Oh right…” he muttered dryly. “This kid had a job. Convenience store clerk, huh?”
He chuckled without humor, pushing wet strands from his face.
“Night shift, cup noodles, fluorescent lights— yeah, you really know how to pick ‘em. Safest job a teenage omega boy could get, right?”
With another groan, he stood up and glanced at the cracked mirror one last time.
“Well, guess we’re going to work,” he said, forcing a crooked grin. “Wouldn’t wanna get fired on my first day back from the dead.”
“That’ll be ¥1 thousand. Do you want a plastic bag?” Satoru asked, voice flat and dripping with boredom — his twentieth customer of the night.
I really need to grab some bandages, a scarf, or sunglasses, he thought as a fresh wave of information slammed into his senses. The constant overflow of cursed— no, quirk — energy made his migraine spike to new heights.
One of the weirdest things about this world was how everyone had cursed energy to some degree, except here they called it a quirk. And that energy usually pooled around wherever their power manifested. For example, the guy in front of him had freaky claw-like hands, and sure enough, the energy gathered there.
Because of that, his Six Eyes were going through hell.
Can’t wait for this shift to end, Gojo thought as another group of drunk idiots stumbled in. They looked like college kids — loud, flushed, and already halfway to blacking out. They raided the fridge, stacking beers on the counter in front of him.
As Gojo scanned each can through the barcode reader, one of them fixated on the scent patch on his shoulder — something this body apparently wore out of habit.
“Hey, cutie,” the sleazy bastard slurred. “Bet it’s boring, working behind a counter all night. Why don’t you come have some fun with us?”
“That’ll be ¥1535,” Satoru said, tone still bored, eyes unreadable. “Cash or card?”
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the guy snapped.
“Cash or card?” Gojo repeated, deadpan.
That seemed to do it. The drunk’s temper flared, and he grabbed Gojo’s arm, yanking hard. For a moment, Satoru considered scaring the idiot off — one flick of cursed energy and they’d be screaming.
But then he noticed the homeless-looking man sitting quietly in the corner. The kid’s body is really taking a toll on him because he has only just noticed his presence. He’s watching the whole exchange. More importantly, there was a massive concentration of cursed energy around his eyes.
'Interesting.'
So Gojo decided to play along. He let the creep tug at him, just to see what the stranger would do.
“From the look of it, you’re obviously an omega,” the guy sneered. “And you know what omegas are supposed to do — obey their betters.”
His friends laughed, egging him on, their gazes turning predatory. That repulsive, immature alpha stench filled the store, thick and disgusting, and Gojo felt his irritation spike.
“So let me teach you how to be a good omega—”
He didn’t finish. The homeless man moved faster than they could blink, grabbing the guy’s wrist right before it reached Gojo’s bottom and twisting it. The sound was ugly.
“Stop harassing the kid,” the man said simply before flipping the drunk flat on his back like he weighed nothing.
The others tried to use their quirks, but... nothing happened. Their powers fizzled out mid-trigger. That’s when Gojo caught a glimpse of those crimson eyes.
'Now that’s new,' he thought, intrigued. 'A nullifier, huh?'
The drunks bolted, stumbling out into the street, leaving only Gojo and the stranger behind.
The man quietly set a canned coffee on the counter.
Gojo scanned it, handed him the change. No words exchanged. The man just walked out, like nothing had happened.
Gojo leaned back, a faint grin tugging at his lips. 'What an interesting guy.'
He exhaled, rubbing his temple. Hopefully, that was the last annoyance of the night. But deep down, he knew better — the kid whose body he now inhabited had memories that painted a very different picture of what was coming.
‘You know what, kid? Screw this minimum-wage nonsense. We’re too pretty for this kind of job. We can do better,’ Gojo tugged off his vest, dropped it on the counter, and strutted out like he owned the place. Sunglasses were now the top priority— because priorities matter.
06:00 AM. He scrolled through his phone for a minute, skimming the news of this world, but interest died almost immediately. Too early for politics, too early for hero nonsense. What he did want was a break — and the moment he spotted a bench, he made his decision.
Gojo sprawled across a sun-warmed wooden bench, a half-melted popsicle dangling from his lips as he stared up at the sky. The morning air was sharp, sweet with city dust and convenience store sugar.
‘Alright, kid,’ he thought, tapping the stick against his knee. ‘We need a job that pays well, doesn’t ask for a diploma, and preferably doesn’t involve more mopping or retail-induced migraines.’
He’d never been poor before — at least, his version of Gojo hadn’t. Poverty was a novelty, and like most novelties, it was losing its charm fast.
‘Maybe I could be a hero?’ he mused, shoving up the cheap sunglasses perched on his nose. ‘Nah. They’d make me study for years, and I’m not surviving the academic hell of boredom twice. And the paperwork? Yeah, no.’
‘Office worker like Nanami? Hell no. I’d rather die again.’
He groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Why does every decent job need a damn degree?’
Just as he stood up, stretching lazily, a voice came from behind him.
“Excuse me, do you have a minute?”
Gojo turned, already expecting some flirt or salesman. ‘Here we go. Is it my turn to be scouted by a cult? Or another lovesick idiot?’
Instead, it was a tall, well-dressed guy — clean-cut, fashionable, and maybe too earnest for this hour.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help but notice you,” the stranger said in a rush. “If you’re free, would you consider being a stand-in model for our shoot today?”
Gojo blinked. Then grinned. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Shouldn’t you at least introduce yourself before throwing job offers at me?” he teased, voice light but edged with amusement.
The guy flushed. “Ah— right! Sorry, that was rude of me.” He scratched his head sheepishly, the kind of smile that could probably sell toothpaste. “I’m Miyano Natsuji — or Natsu, if that’s easier. I’m a model, and, uh, my partner had to leave last minute for an emergency. The shoot can’t be postponed, and, well…” He gestured awkwardly. “You’ve got the kind of look that fits the concept perfectly.”
Gojo tilted his head, lips quirking. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But tell me— will your team actually let some random guy walk in and model?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Natsu replied quickly. “It’s for my own clothing brand. I’m the producer. I can approve it.”
‘So I’m the industry plant, huh?’ Gojo thought with a wide, shit-eating grin. ‘My favorite kind of rigged system—one that rigs itself for me. Not even an age check. Bold choice, sir.’
“Alright,” he said smoothly. “Let’s talk numbers.”
“¥650 thousand for an hour?”
Gojo clasped the man’s hands instantly, eyes gleaming. “Deal!”
Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in a folding chair while stylists fluttered around him like overcaffeinated birds — brushing, dusting, adjusting. The air smelled of foundation, face powder, perfumes and fabric starch.
The clothes were inspired by Y2K grunge — shredded denim, silver chains, graphics and dark fabrics stitched together like beautiful chaos. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he smirked. “Damn, kid, we clean up nice.”
Then the cameras clicked.
And just like that— the world shifted.
His lungs seized. The strobe of the flash felt like lightning behind his eyes, every click of the shutter slicing into his brain like static. Voices blurred. The air turned heavy, thick with phantom hands and invisible dread.
‘Ah’, he realized distantly, ‘the kid’s trauma’.
Memories not his own rippled through him — a cold apartment, a locked door, the click of a camera. The hollow laughter of adults who saw a child not as a person, but as a product.
His body remembered the fear even though his soul didn’t. The instinctive freeze, the nausea crawling up his throat.
Gojo stood there, unmoving, eyes wide behind the makeup.
And then he exhaled. Slowly. Controlled. Like sealing a curse inside a box.
‘This isn’t mine.’
His fingers flexed once, grounding himself. He straightened, tilted his head, and smiled — dazzling and fake and flawless. He moved for the camera with precision, turning trauma into art, pain into posture. Because if there was one thing Gojo Satoru knew how to do, it was to perform.
“Perfect! Beautiful! Hold that!” someone called.
The flashes slowed, replaced by softer lights as Natsu stepped in beside him for the couple shoot.
Gojo could smell the alpha in him now — clean sandalwood, sea salt, a faint electric hum under his skin. Not bad. Calming, almost.
“You’re a natural,” Natsu said between shots, a little awed.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Gojo replied with a smile so dazzling it should’ve been illegal—conveniently hiding the fact that this was his first time in front of a camera.
Pose after pose, angle after angle — until the director finally called for a break. Gojo stretched, rolling his shoulders as Natsu led him to the buffet table, never straying too far. The man was subtle, but Gojo noticed the way his gaze lingered — not on his face, but on him.
‘Oh boy’, Gojo thought. ‘He’s already gone’.
“So,” Gojo began, tone playful as he picked at a sandwich, “you seemed awfully prepared to have a random stranger fill in. Either you’re psychic or this happens a lot.”
Natsu laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? I had a feeling. My usual partner’s… well, she does what she wants. Always last-minute cancellations.”
“Ah, a diva,” Gojo said knowingly.
“You could say that.”
“Well,” Gojo added, smirking as he leaned back in his chair, “guess I should thank her then.”
“Thank her?”
“Yeah,” he said, lifting his drink in mock toast. “Thanks to her, I got paid for looking hot.”
Natsu laughed, and for a moment, Gojo found himself almost — almost — at ease.
But deep inside, a shadow of the boy’s pain still lingered. A ghost that wasn’t his, breathing softly under the bright lights of a world too beautiful and too cruel.
“So, how old are you?” Natsu asked, piling sweets onto his plate with the enthusiasm of someone who’d never heard of self-restraint.
Mousse cake. My favorite. Hands off, golden boy, Gojo thought, already feeling himself salivate.
“Oh, I’m fourteen,” he said casually, reaching for the same dessert just as Natsu’s head whipped around so fast Gojo swore he heard a vertebra cry for help.
“Fourteen?!” Natsu practically yelped.
Gojo just popped a macaron into his mouth, nodding with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly how cute he looked doing it.
‘Yeah, be stunned. Fear me. I am but a very cute child.’
“Surprised?” Gojo mused, tone light and lilting, even as he raised a brow in amusement at Natsu’s still-wide eyes.
Natsu finally managed to collect himself, smoothing down his shirt like that might restore his dignity. “Well… you have a very mature way of carrying yourself.” His smile was kind, genuinely so — warm enough that Gojo understood why the camera loved him.
Gojo hummed, pretending to focus on the buffet trays instead of the small knot of worry in his stomach. “Hope this won’t… cause trouble when it’s time for me to get paid.”
Perfectly calm on the outside.
Inside? Please don’t ask for a parent's signature. Please don’t ask for a parent's signature. Please—
Natsu blinked, then shook his head, tone easy and reassuring. “Parental contact isn’t really needed. A lot of teens enter showbiz on their own — it’s pretty common.”
Gojo let out a quiet breath, he hoped passed as a laugh. “Was I that obvious?” he asked, light and teasing.
“Not at all,” Natsu chuckled, the warm, golden-retriever kind of sound that made people trust him instantly. “I just didn’t want you worrying about something you didn’t have to.”
And just like that, the tension melted.
They continued their lunch break outside, the breeze warm, the chatter from the other staff drifting through the buffet area. Gojo grabbed another macaron — for emotional support, of course — while Natsu reached for more sweets with the enthusiasm of a sugar-powered puppy.
Gojo snorted quietly.
What a pair we make, he thought. The overgrown golden retriever and the jaded menace masquerading as a teenager.
Lunch somehow felt… easy. And, annoyingly, kind of nice.
“That’s a wrap! Good job, everyone!” Natsu called out happily, bowing so energetically his hair bounced. The staff bowed back. Gojo too bowed and clapped politely as well.
Compliments drifted across the set as people started packing up equipment. Both Gojo and Natsu headed to their separate changing rooms. It had been a small shoot in theory, but the number of outfit changes stretched it into an all-day affair.
As Gojo peeled off the last designer shirt and slipped back into his cheap clothes, he couldn’t help thinking, ‘Weird for him to hire some random stray like me when he could’ve paid for real models. With that salary? He could rent half the agency.’
But he didn’t know the rules of showbiz, and honestly, he didn’t care enough to untangle it. Free food, good lighting, nice paycheck — life was simple when you stopped thinking.
He stepped outside, carrying the outfit back to Natsu, who was waiting by a rack. The moment Natsu saw him, he looked… troubled. Almost guilty.
“You know what?” Natsu said, scratching his cheek. “I think you should keep all the clothes you wore today.”
Gojo blinked, then brightened like a cat presented with a luxury cardboard box.
‘He might be pitying me, or maybe he’s worried the kid who modeled them will ruin his brand if seen in rags — but who cares? Free clothes.’
“Really?” Gojo asked, eyes sparkling in a way that made Natsu instantly crack up.
Natsu reached out and brushed Gojo’s cheek with the back of his fingers, grinning. “A cute kid like you shouldn’t wear bad clothes.”
‘Nice try,’ Gojo thought. ‘If I weren’t actually twenty-seven on the inside, I might’ve swooned. Tragically immune.’
Out loud, he joked, “Careful saying things like that — I might fall for you.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Natsu replied, voice warm, smile soft.
Gojo mentally slammed on the brakes.
‘Red flag detected. Sir, what is your age?! Sure, you look young but you’re directing a photoshoot for fuck’s sake!‘
Trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer, he asked lightly, “Speaking of—how old are you? You asked mine, but I never got yours.”
“Oh, I’m sixteen,” Natsu said, cheeks warming. “And yeah, I’ve got a brand and I’m directing a shoot, but that doesn’t mean I’m older.”
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… have the right connections.”
‘Ah,’ Gojo thought flatly. ‘Nepotism. Classic.’
“It’s okay, no need to get embarrassed. It’s not like we all chooses to which family we are born to” Gojo said to sooth him.
And then the conversation drifted onto Gojo’s payment. The idea of a kid earning five million yen for eight hours of work was surreal, even to him. On one hand, it wasn’t a particularly huge amount for Gojo Satoru, who’d been born into a wealthy clan.
But for the teenage Gojo Satoru of this world — the one who’d struggled with money every single day — it was staggering.
The amazement hit him sharply, even though those memories weren’t his. It wasn’t easy, having emotions from a life he never lived bleed into his consciousness at random.
Natsu, blissfully unaware of Gojo’s little internal crisis and still very much the hopeless romantic, asked for his contact. Gojo handed it over without a fuss — the kid was easy to be around, and there was something in his smile, in the way he talked, that reminded Gojo a little too much of Haibara for him to say no.
“Wait—hold on.” Natsu fumbled with his phone for a second, cheeks a little pink. “My uncle’s actually a casting director at WLC Entertainment. Here—take his contact. I mean, only if you want to! But seriously… you have real potential.”
Gojo stared at the number, dumbfounded. ‘Is he a genie? Why is he handing out contacts like sample snacks at a supermarkets?’
“Oh my gosh, thank you,” Gojo said, putting on the sweetest, bashful tone he’d seen omegas use in passing. “How can I make it up to you?”
Natsu’s cheeks pinked. “You could… go on a date with me?”
Gojo nearly choked on his own breath.
‘Amazing. Fantastic. Here I was worrying he was a predator, only to find out I’m the accidental cougar.’
“Are you sure?” Gojo asked carefully.
Natsu nodded earnestly, without a single doubt in his eyes.
Gojo sighed internally. ‘Well… one date won’t kill me.’
So he smiled and said, “Sure.”
Natsu lit up instantly — bright enough to power Tokyo for three hours.
‘Great,’ Gojo thought. ‘I’ve acquired a sun.’
Gojo skipped toward home, light on his feet, taking another bite from the huge ice cream in his hand. Dawn was fading, inviting bugs onto the glow of lamps.
Then he froze at what he saw.
Light spilled from his apartment window. Presence. Wrong. His Six Eyes saw everything. Them
Cold anger snapped tight in his chest.
They were inside. Waiting.
And Gojo smiled coldly.