The hut was tucked away in the trees, its wooden walls weathered by years of wind and rain. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the scent of burning pine mingled with something richer—spices, maybe, or stew simmering over a fire. Geto pushed the door open with an easy confidence, as if he already knew every creak of its hinges.

I barely had time to step inside before the air whistled.

A blade flashed toward me—fast, deadly, aimed straight for my temple.

Instincts, sharpened by years of my mother's relentless drills, kicked in before my mind could catch up. My hand snapped out, fingers closing around the hilt mid-air, the cold metal biting into my palm. The force of the catch reverberated up my arm, but I held firm.

Silence. Then—

"Oh wow, that was so cool!"

A blur of pink hair barreled toward me, grinning like I'd just performed some kind of miracle. The boy—Yuji, had to be Yuji—bounced on the balls of his feet, his energy practically vibrating the floorboards. "You caught it! Like, full-on whoosh and then—grab! Amazing!"

Before I could respond, a darker figure stepped between us. Black hair, sharp features, a thin scar cutting across his lip. He plucked the knife from my grip with a muttered, "Sorry. Just instincts." His breathing was slightly uneven, like he'd been caught off guard—either by my reflexes or his own missed strike.

I arched a brow. "Yours or mine?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Both."

With that, he turned and handed the blade to Geto, who accepted it with the same infuriating calm he did everything else.

"That's Toji," Geto said, as if we'd just been introduced at a tea ceremony instead of a near-decapitation. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and heavy. "And this," he added, nodding toward the pink-haired whirlwind still beaming at me, "is our new travel companion, Kai."

Yuji's grin widened. "Nice to meet you, Kai! You're already way more fun than Megumi."

A voice—dry, unimpressed—floated from the shadows near the hearth. "I'm right here, Yuji."

A boy emerged, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, his expression caught between annoyance and resignation. Megumi. The name fit him.

Toji snorted, folding his arms. "Kid's got good reflexes. I'll give him that."

Geto's fingers tightened slightly on my shoulder. "See?" he murmured, just for me. "You'll fit right in."

I glanced around the hut—at Yuji's relentless cheer, Toji's guarded smirk, Megumi's wary scrutiny—and felt something unfamiliar unfurl in my chest.

Maybe, just maybe, this was where I belonged.

SCENEBREAK

The night air was cool against my skin, a welcome respite from the boisterous energy inside the hut. The stars overhead were sharp and bright, untouched by the haze of city lights. I exhaled slowly, savoring the quiet as I turned another page of my book—a worn volume of folktales my mother had tucked into my bag. The spine creaked softly under my fingers, the familiar weight of it grounding me.

Then, footsteps.

Deliberate, measured. Not the bounding energy of Yuji or the careless swagger of Gojo.

"Excuse me about Gojo," a voice said, low and even. "He's always... eager to make new friends."

I glanced up to see a man in a neatly pressed suit, his blond hair catching the faint glow of the lantern light. His glasses gleamed as he adjusted them, obscuring his eyes just enough to make him unreadable. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat beside me on the porch steps, maintaining a respectful distance.

"Nanami Kento," he introduced himself, extending a hand.

I closed my book and shook it. His grip was firm, his palm calloused in a way that spoke of combat rather than labor. "Nice to meet you, Nanami. I'm Kai."

"Geto told us about you," he said, matter-of-fact. No fanfare, no probing curiosity—just a statement. Then, after a beat: "So. What's your story?"

The question shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. Maybe it was the way he asked—direct, unflinching, as if he already knew the answer and was merely giving me the courtesy of speaking it aloud.

I hesitated.

Nanami wasn't like the others. Gojo thrived on chaos, Yuji on enthusiasm, Toji on provocation. But Nanami? He was stillness. A man who measured his words like currency.

"Not much of a story," I said finally, tracing the edge of my book. "Just a traveler who got lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you look at it."

Nanami hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Luck doesn't usually involve catching Toji's knife bare-handed."

A faint smile tugged at my lips. "Instinct."

"Instinct like that comes from training," he countered. "Or survival."

I met his gaze then. Behind the glasses, his eyes were sharp, assessing. Not unkind, but unyielding.

"Both," I admitted.

For the first time, something flickered in Nanami's expression—something almost like approval. "Geto thinks you'll fit in here."

"And what do you think?"

He leaned back slightly, considering. "I think you're used to being alone. That's not a bad thing. But it's not sustainable, either."

The truth of it settled between us, heavy and undeniable.

Inside the hut, laughter erupted—Yuji's booming joy, Gojo's teasing lilt, even Megumi's quiet scoff. A cacophony of personalities, each more vibrant than the last. Dangerous, yes. Unpredictable, absolutely.

But for the first time in years, I didn't feel like an outsider looking in.

Nanami stood, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. "They're a lot to handle," he said, nodding toward the noise. "But they're also... reliable. In their own way."

I huffed a laugh. "That's one word for it."

He almost smiled. Almost. "Get some rest. Tomorrow won't be any quieter."

As he walked away, I turned back to the stars, the book forgotten in my lap.

What's my story?

Maybe, just maybe, it was only beginning.