megaraa
Fushiguro finally set down his pen. That, more than anything, indicated that the situation had achieved a new level of concern. "Why is a nineteen-year-old entering as a first year?"
Gojo waved a hand. "Complicated clan stuff. She's been operating independently for a while, so enrollment kept getting pushed. The important thing is she's here now, she's at your level academically, and I expect all three of you to make her feel-"
The door opened.
The temperature in the room didn't drop, exactly. It was more that the air thickened - like the moment before a storm makes itself known, when the pressure shifts and something animal in the back of your brain starts paying attention before your eyes do.
Itadori straightened without meaning to. Nobara's hand moved instinctively toward her hammer before she caught herself. Fushiguro had gone very still in the particular way he went still when he was calculating.
She stepped through the doorway like she wasn't in a hurry, like she was never in a hurry, and the cursed energy came with her - not in a wave, not in a roar, but in a slow, suffocating pressure that filled the room from the floor up, the way water fills a glass. Each step landed with a faint pulse of it, barely visible, a shimmer at the sole of her shoe that bloomed and dissolved in the same breath.
She was tall. Black hair, long, sitting over her shoulders like it had never been cut, framing a face that was expressionless in the way of someone who had made a choice about that a long time ago. She wore a white jacket, and her hands - fingers bare from the knuckles up - hung loose at her sides, relaxed in a way that read less like calm and more like readiness.