ⁱ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵐᵃᵍⁿᵉᵗⁱᶜ ᶠᵒʳᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵃ ᵐᵃⁿ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ᵐʸ ˡᵒᵛᵉʳ

one.

You awaken with a groan. Someone's knocking.

Your bedroom is situated in the infirmary, a large single room with a sofa area, kitchen, and bed. Polaroids of your friends cover the walls, and fairy lights hang from the ceiling. A double bed covered with rumpled sheets and a whole store of stuffed animals butts up against the far wall, surrounded by a crowd of beeping machines.

Sitting up, you pass a weary hand over your cheeks to wipe the tears away. Calling it crying is inaccurate; it's more an involuntary oozing, brought on by particularly strong surges of pain, often while you sleep. You rake your fingers through your hair and stumble over to the door, greeting Nobara and company with a wan smile.

"Something wrong?" You ask, wandering back to your bed and flopping down atop of the still-warm covers.

"[ NAME ], were you sleeping? It's four in the afternoon." The large bag slung over Nobara's shoulder fills you with no small amount of trepidation, and you eye it warily as she barges into the room. Yuji and Megumi are with her, and while Megumi instantly gravitates to the seating area to peruse the books on the coffee table, Yuji wanders around, taking your room in with wide eyes. "Don't you have that marriage thing to go for?"

"Marriage interview," You correct, pulling a face. Irritation simmers through you. "And I'm going to show up late. That's the whole point. Show up late, make a bad impression, scare off the boy."

Gojo-sensei had been willing to run interference on your behalf, but you'd assured him that you would take care of your problem on your own. You have no desire to be married – and most certainly not to a snob from an elite clan. You hate the constant talks of marriage, and you feel that you have nothing in common with the groups of idle young people from elite families you've been forced into joining.

"I didn't know anyone still bought into that arranged marriage thing." Yuji remarks.

Megumi looks up from the book he's paging through – a dog-eared copy of The Fault in Our Moon. "Actually, most of the major clans still practice it. It's not uncommon for families to marry their sons or daughters off to more powerful clans in exchange for social status or a dowry."

Nobara scowls. You think that's a pretty accurate summation of how you're currently feeling.

Yuji glances back at you. "So who's the lucky guy?"

You shrug. "Didn't catch his name, but I think he's related to Gojo-sensei."

Your mother had been positively glowing when she'd met with you for lunch the other day. She'd met you bearing gifts, and an announcement that she'd found you a suitable boy, a Shaman with good breeding and an agreeable disposition. Determination had straightened her spine. Her mind could rest easy, now that the one wrinkle in her life was smoothed out. As for you – you'd felt even more a prisoner than ever, feeling as though your life was being presented to you, neatly wrapped in a box and fastened with a ribbon.

You're greeted with three identical expressions of disgust. In spite of the apprehension lashing about at your insides, you laugh.

"Good luck with that." Megumi mumbles.

You spend a good part of the afternoon crouched in the bathroom, under a stream of warm water, willing the tension from your muscles. It doesn't help. And however much you wish you can spend the rest of your days in warm water, Nobara's incessant pounding on the bathroom door soon forces you out. She brushes out your hair and spackles on makeup so thick that when you look in the mirror, you hardly recognize yourself.

Your hair hangs loose and frames your face. You've never stopped carrying pain around long enough to consider your own attractiveness, but your face has been remoulded into a mask of perfection. The shadows under your eyes have all vanished, a light pink blush tinges your cheeks, and roses stain your lips.

Clearly, Nobara hasn't gotten the memo about your desire to make a bad impression.

No matter. A glance at the clock tells you that your late arrival will do just that.

As revenge, you wear the plainest dress in your wardrobe to the hotel. It's a simple cotton slip dress in black, which matches your mood. Your parents won't be able to say anything about it. You are, after all, dressed nicely. As instructed.

And as you walk down the halls of white marble, you keep one hand on the wall to steady yourself. Everything tips and sways and spins. You half-heartedly regret downing that copious amount of painkiller – but it's the only thing capable of ensuring that you're fit to dine with guests. You carry your flats in your other hand – you'll put them on right before you enter the room, so that you won't slip on the floors.

Pain slashes at your insides, dulled by drugs but not eliminated. You step into your shoes and push the door open. The function room is grand but warm, lit by lanterns that glow on the long table. Everyone else of importance is already present, engaged in conversation and sipping on fluted glasses – the empty place setting in the very centre of the table is telling. They've clearly been expecting you. You walk to the table, feeling a mixture of anger and apprehension. All conversation dies at your approach.

"Ah, there she is," Your mother says, gesturing towards you. Her nostrils narrow – the only outward sign of her displeasure, and one that has likely gone unnoticed by everyone present. "Everyone, this is my daughter, [ NAME ]."

"How lovely," A dark-haired woman remarks. Her small, milky eyes rake over you from the top of your head to your toes, and her mouth purses. You assume she's to be your mother in law, and your stomach churns. "She attends Jujutsu High, does she not?"

"Yeah." You say, working to enunciate though your lips are numb. "I'm a first-year."

She waves a bejewelled hand about in the air. "Oh, my son's a second year. Have you met him?"

You stare into the face of Okkotsu Yuta.