Your Life As A Tokyo Jujutsu High Background Student

Chapter 47 - To dance with the devil

The next name on your list was, to put it delicately, the sort that sent a shiver of primal fear skittering down your spine. Gakuganji was intimidating, sure, in that stuffy, old-man-yells-at-cloud way. But this one? This was a whole other beast, a whole different stratosphere of terror.

Honestly, given the choice between a leisurely stroll over hot coals and an hour alone with her, you'd be grabbing the charcoal and lighter fluid without a second thought. Even existing on the same continent felt like pushing your luck. But fate, the fickle bitch, had seen fit to grace you with the delightful task of facing down Mei Mei.

The mere mention of your plan to approach her had nearly catapulted Gojo into space.

"Absolutely not," he'd declared, eyes flashing (you assumed, anyway) behind those opaque shades. "I'm coming with you."

You'd shut that down with the efficiency of someone who'd already run through this scenario a dozen times in their head – mostly to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable freakout.

"Her spy crows are tweaking on crack at this point, sensei," you'd explained, massaging your temples. "There's no way you could get within five miles of her estate without setting off every alarm imaginable. We need stealth. Maximum stealth."

Mei Mei was an espionage expert. The woman had probably been running covert ops while you were still learning your ABCs. Dealing with her wasn't about brute force but finesse, cunning – a carefully orchestrated dance to appeal to her very specific sensibilities. This was a high-stakes negotiation with a side of existential dread, and you couldn't afford to put even a single toe out of line.

Naturally, your efforts at projecting an aura of "everything's fine, totally got this, please ignore the cold sweat" did little to soothe Gojo's rapidly mounting apprehension. Ever since the Shibuya Incident and his forced vacation in the Prison Realm, he'd developed a concerning case of separation anxiety. Or, as you'd taken to calling it in the privacy of your own mind, "Clingy Bastard Syndrome."

Not that you could fault him, given the cosmic-level mindfuck he'd endured. You weren't exactly the poster child for mental health, either. Between the nightmares, the constant feeling that death was breathing down your neck, and the fact that you'd started to view coffee as less of a beverage and more of a life-sustaining elixir, you were one stiff breeze away from a full-blown nervous breakdown.

"It's fine, you big baby," you'd cooed, abandoning reason to squish his cheeks between your palms. "Choso's coming with me. He's a special grade, remember? He can handle Mei Mei if things go sideways."

A few feet away, Choso grunted what you assumed was agreement. Eloquent, you thought fondly.

Gojo's expression remained serious as he grabbed your hands, his grip just shy of painful. "You don't know Mei Mei like I do, Spices. It's not just that she's a first grade. She's dangerous because she's—"

"What? A conniving, money-grubbing sociopath with a moral code cobbled together from whatever she found down the back of the sofa cushions?" you interrupted. "Yeah, I got the memo. Unless you've got a better idea tucked away in that bird's nest you call hair, this is our best shot."

Taking pity on him, you softened your voice, injecting it with a confidence that had abandoned its post somewhere between crafting the plan and actually having to execute it.

"I promise I'm not underestimating her. But if shit hits the fan, you can just pop in and bail me out, right?"

You held up your wrist, catching Gojo's gaze and steering it pointedly toward the bracelet he'd gifted you. His eyes darted to it, widening a fraction – the visual of a kid caught red-handed with his face buried in the cookie jar.