Chapter Text
TOJI- THE GRAVEHOUND
The red-light district of Shinjuku pulsated with ravenous energy. Neon lights buzzed and flickered, casting crimson across puddles and painted heels. The air was saccharine with cheap perfume and kreteks. The velvet sound of a saxophone could be heard from a second-story window, while a hostess giggled from below; her kimono slipping off one shoulder. Toji Fushiguro slipped through it all like a shadow.
Hands shoved far into the pockets of his black jacket, he made his way past the clubs, electrified and pulsing with Eurobeat, a pachinko parlour vibrating with chaos, and an alley glowing with red lanterns and rhythmic soft groans. Taiga, the bouncer at Club Kismet, gave him a vague nod of acknowledgement, stepping aside to let him pass through. Toji didn’t nod back.
Inside, the air was hot and charged; bass thrummed like a pulse through his body. Strobe lights hazily illuminated familiar faces, and bartenders with black gloves poured dark liquids over ice. A woman dipped in silk slipped him a cat-like smile she didn’t mean; the place oozed with lust and money. Toji brushed past her as if she were a stray on the street. He headed straight for the back, past the dancers, laughter, and the mirrored ceilings. Past a velvet rope guarded by a man with more muscle than mind. He entered the dilapidated elevator that took him to The Pit .
“You’re late.” Shiu Kong’s smoke-rasped voice echoed in the dim hallway.
Toji rolled his eyes and popped a kretek in his mouth. “The Pit is spiritless without The Gravehound.”
Shiu lit Toji's loose cigarette, grunting in vexation, before leading him into the prep room where two Sixfold men awaited to assist him. Grounding his cigarette with a heavy boot, Toji shrugged off his worn jacket and threw off his tight-fitted shirt, revealing his broad, muscular chest— all sinew with scars and the character 六 inked into the flesh of his upper back—he looked like a weapon forged from flames.
He smirked at the irritated Kurokami as the men wound bindings over his knuckles.
“New stick up your ass today, huh? Or is it the same one as yesterday?” Shiu ignored the insult, flicking his hand to instruct the men to leave them alone. He watched Toji check the tautness of his bindings.
“You’re too arrogant, eolin neugdae. One day, such arrogance may be your undoing.” Toji bristled at the familiar Korean nickname the Kurokami often used when speaking with gravity. He raised an eyebrow. What was he insinuating?
“If I am to die, it will be high on Talon while I am surrounded by women.” Shiu was not amused, his eyes narrowed further.
“Remember, the Pit doesn’t care who you are, only what you bleed .”
______
Bodies slicked with sweat pressed against the cage, their snarling faces half-lit by the flickering fluorescent lights from above. The Pit reeked of blood, metal, and the sickly smooth haze of Talon that encompassed the room like incense. The rusted door of the prep room flung open, and silence gripped the wild crowd like a hand to the throat. He stepped out barefoot, arms hanging loosely by his sides. His shirtless torso was covered with hideous scars that each told a story of men who had fought the Gravehound and never made it out alive. Muscles cut deep as if they had been chiselled from stone; Toji Fushiguro was less of a man and more like something carved from the Gods themselves.
“ The Gravehound ,” the announcer growled into the microphone, his voice raw. “Here to bury another.” The crowd erupted into madness; many were cheering, some were cursing. The ones who bet against him were always new to the game. Toji rolled his neck and relaxed his shoulders as if he were about to go for a smoke break. Dark eyes swept across the cage like he was measuring a coffin. He ducked into the ring, vaguely aware of the mass of bodies chanting his name as if praying to him; after all, they did bet all their green on him.
Across from him, the challenger paced, dark hair covering half of his face. His frame was slender, with far less muscle than Toji usually expected of a bruiser hoping to knock him to the ground. The man bore no marks, no ink. He must be a juvenile, Toji thought. He silently cursed Shiu for allowing this boy to slip past his watchful eye.
Oh well. Now he had to teach this boy a lesson.
A bell cracked in the air.
The boy launched first– he was quick and desperate. A nasty left hook meant to rattle teeth. But Toji moved like water, dodging his fist and letting it slide past his shoulder. His counterattack was a simple upper-cut, but for someone like Toji, it was lethal. The challenger buckled, oxygen snatched from his lungs. Toji grabbed the flesh at the back of his neck, drove a knee into his ribs, and watched him crumple to the floor like collapsed scaffolding. The crowd roared with bloodlust. The Pit fed off violence, and Toji gave just enough to keep the hounds loyal.
He didn’t stay to gloat about his winning; all he’d done was beat a teenager into the ground– it was hardly a fair fight. He simply turned, stepped over the twitching body, and made his way across the ring to a contented Kurokami. But the widening of his feline eyes made Toji halt his movements. The air had shifted. Not silence—no, the Pit never slept—it was the kind of stillness that precedes a car crash. Behind him, something moved.
Fast.
Toji faintly heard the sound of bones cracking like knuckles before he saw the challenger, the one whose ribs should’ve been broken, rise. He moved as if he’d never taken a single hit. He stood tall, grinning, mocking. The boy’s pupils were blown wide, a deep abyss of something uncanny. His skin was glossed with a faint sheen of sweat. It was as if the past five minutes had never occurred. A muscle in Toji’s jaw flexed. No one dared to humiliate the Gravehound .
The crowd continued to roar, but now it was uncertain who they were cheering for. The announcer stammered into the microphone. “Looks like the Gravehound’s got a resurrector. ”
The boy didn’t wait for the drama of it all and lunged at Toji with far more precision than he did before, like a seasoned Pit fighter. Toji barely shifted in time; the juvenile’s fist, inked with dark protruding veins, scraped past his chin with unnatural speed, blistering fast, almost a blur. He threw a knee, a low hook, then spun into a backfist that grazed Toji’s temple. Toji staggered back.
The Gravehound. Staggered.
The crowd lost it.
Watching from the balcony booth with a cigarette smouldering in his hand, Suguru Geto stood up slowly, eyes narrowing at the scene beneath him.
Toji recovered instantly, the shock wearing off in a few seconds. His gaze sharpened, his muscles flexed– he’d been holding back. He had seen this kind of strength before; if it wasn’t excessive training, it must be raw will. The boy charged again, his lanky frame mapped with hot thrumming veins, his opponent reflected in the darkness of his pupils. Toji’s lip curled, the way a wolf might sneer before ripping the flesh of its prey.
He swung an inescapable hit towards the boy’s temple, expecting that to be the final blow. What the Gravehound didn’t expect was for his fist to be met with the palm of a hand.
The kid grabbed his fist.
He barely had time to register the action before feeling the familiar warm pain of a blow land on his side. Oxygen escaped his lungs, and he tried to mask it with a snarl– but his footing slipped, just enough. The boy used this opening, and the blows came down fast, relentless, unforgiving. It was as if a switch had flicked on in his subconscious, like he had finally woken up. Toji managed to hit back, but his posture sagged from the continuous hits he’d taken. He needed to find a weak spot.
Wild with rage, he gripped the boy’s neck and lifted him off the ground, his feet dangling helplessly. He growled with malignancy, his dark eyes meeting the boy’s even darker ones. He drew his arm back, preparing to knock him into an early grave, but the boy already predicted this and used both of his legs to push off Toji’s chest. It shouldn’t have worked, but the raw strength was unparalleled, and Toji was hurled back, slamming into the metal bars of the cage. The harsh contact caused stars to appear in his vision. What the fuck just happened?
Before he could push off, another strike snapped his head sideways. Then another. Each one sharper and cleaner than the last. He tried to clinch, to slow it down, but this kid was too swift. Toji’s body moved on instinct, but now instinct wasn’t enough. He felt his knees slam hard into the ground, his arms slowed, and his breath shallow. A final blow cracked into his temple. Then, darkness.
______
GETO- THE MONK
Toji's body hitting the ground echoed throughout the Pit like a dropped stone in water. The Monk didn’t flinch; he studied the scene below him as if there was something he had missed. He stood motionless, his cigarette burning to the butt. The Gravehound— his Gravehound— was flat on his front, arms splayed, and blood pooling from the side of his head. The crowd continued to roar; screams of anguish could be heard as if they had just witnessed a god fall. Geto barely registered them, he couldn’t take his eyes off Toji.
Beside him, Nanako leaned forward, gum frozen between her teeth. “... shit. ”
Geto exhaled slowly, dropping his burnt-out kretek to the ground. “Shit indeed.” Nanako turned to him, puzzled. “I thought that guy was a filler? Surely, if there was someone on the streets who could make the Gravehound bite the dust, we’d know about it.” Irritated as he was, his composure remained neutral, his voice carrying its smooth velvet texture, “he was.”
In the ring, the boy didn’t try to gloat; he looked traumatised. Geto watched the boy’s eyes dart around feverishly, his limbs beginning to shake with such vigour that he looked like a Talon addict on a comedown. Geto gritted his teeth, turning his attention to two Sixfolds, “Make sure he doesn’t leave.” The broad men left without question. He looked back towards the ring; regulars began to whisper, bookies shifted uncomfortably, even the Pit girls had ceased their movements. Nanako finally spoke, her voice tight, “That’s gonna spread.”
“I know.”
She glanced up at him. “Want me to lock it down?”
“Later.” He took a step back from the glass, jaw tense. “Take him to The Maw. The Butcher will take care of him.” Nanako nodded and pulled out her phone, her long nails tapping rapidly at the screen. Geto’s gaze remained focused on the Gravehound’s limp body, the body that was once indomitable.
“Toji doesn’t go down like that,” he muttered, more to himself. Nanako looked up. “You think it's fixed?”
“No.” His voice grew cold. “Worse.” He turned, walking towards the door. “I think we just got outplayed.”
______
TOJI- THE GRAVEHOUND
Toji’s body felt as if it had been cemented into the table when he woke. He hissed at the brightness that flooded his vision when his eyes cracked open, and was greeted by the stench of antiseptic. The pounding in his head, heavy like a rhythmic gong, receded only slightly, and his ribs felt as if they’d been smashed up and poorly glued back together.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Dr. Ieiri drawled unenthusiastically. She was standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed over her lab coat, a kretek hanging from the corner of her chapped lips. The sign behind her read NO SMOKING: Violators will be shot- but knowing her, that only encouraged it.
Toji shifted into a sitting position, his torso immediately screaming in protest. White hot pain squeezed at his ribs, and he almost lost his breath. Dr. Ieiri flicked the cigarette ash onto the floor. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you get beat to shit in front of a few hundred people,” she muttered, walking over with a clipboard. “Two broken ribs, a concussion,” she sucked in a harsh breath, “and a severely bruised ego– now that could be fatal.”
"Shut it, Shoko,” he growled, his voice thick. The Sixfold doctor merely rolled her eyes, unthreatened by his demeanour. Toji felt her pressing something cold to his wrist, checking his pulse. Her tired brown eyes narrowed, watching him closely. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you got into the ring with a gorilla,” Toji grunted in vexation, snatching his wrist back to his chest. “Who was that kid?” He muttered.
Shoko didn’t answer him immediately. She scribbled something messily onto her clipboard. “He signed up with a fake ID. The Butcher is getting that information as we speak.”
Toji nodded slowly, remembering the look of Suguru Geto when he fell to his knees in the ring. He flexed his hand, his knuckles were raw. Shoko considered him for a moment. “The Monk has it under control, you just need to focus on healing those ribs before your next Pit fight.”
He shot her a look. “You overestimate your friend’s farsightedness, Doctor.”
Shoko frowned at this, jabbing a finger into his rib, leaning forward. “Every member of the Sixfold owes their life to Geto, so don’t start getting cocky now, Gravehound. ” Toji winced as she twisted her finger further; he felt too weak to move his body. Swiftly, she stepped back from him, a dry smile catching her lips.
“A Mitsubishi is waiting for you outside. Don’t take forever.” She threw her cigarette onto the ground before leaving the room and slamming the door behind her.
______
SUKUNA- THE BUTCHER
The Maw was singing again. The Butcher circled the Red Chair, watching the kid like a starved python, his mouth lifted into a venomous sneer. He was already strapped into the chair, zip-ties tight enough to bruise, ankles trembling against the bolts. His left eye appeared a swollen mess when Sukuna arrived– someone had already decided to play with his toy.
“Interesting,” he murmured from behind the chair, cracking his neck leisurely. “Didn’t think Toji could lose. But you? Hm…” he leaned closer, his breath hot against his ear, “You’ve got a glass jaw and a spine of wet rice.” The kid squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth quivering with trepidation.
“I-It was just a fight…I swear I-” He gasped in pain as his head was thrown back by a forceful grip on his hair.. Sukuna’s claw-like nails dug into his scalp, his carmine eyes dark with rage at the kid’s blatant lie. The kid whimpered in pain, biting his lip harshly until it bled. The Butcher smiled. “There is no just in the Pit,” he spoke softly, like a priest offering last rites. “When you put a man like Toji on the floor, you don’t get to walk away clean,” he leans impossibly closer, “You walk into my house.”
He stood abruptly, grabbed a pair of pliers from a rusted medical tray, holding them absentmindedly. “Tell me. Have you heard stories about the Maw?” The kid’s eyes widened in recognition, but he remained silent, trembling. Sukuna leaned forward again, his voice like silk dragging over a knife’s edge. “It would be foolish to play the silent game, it only makes it more delicious when you scream.” He snapped the pliers, and the boy flinched.
“So, are you going to comply?” Before the kid could let out a sound, he drove the metal pliers deep into his right kneecap. His screams echoed perfectly, Sukuna mused, twisting the pliers to elicit more of them. The pipes would carry his screams and feed them to the Choir Room. And Toji, wherever he was tonight, would feel it— somewhere deep in his bones. Sukuna would make sure of that, because no one touched his circle, not without bleeding for it.
______
GETO- THE MONK
Rain hammered against the windows of the office like it was trying to break in. Geto sat in the dark, only dimly lit by the dull, shifting glow of the six monitors surveying the Maw. It didn’t take long for the kid to start squawking, and neither he nor Sukuna was all that surprised. The Maw was designed to break even the strongest of men. He was slumped in the Red Chair like wet laundry, his head resting on his left shoulder, and more bruises than he’d left the Pit with.
Sukuna hadn’t broken a sweat. The kid, no–Junpei, spoke promptly.
“My dealer– he gave me this drug– said it was better than the usual stuff. I tried to tell him no, but the guy was so insistent that I try it– said I’d be one of the first on the street.” Geto’s eyes narrowed in interest, leaning closer to the monitor to hear Junpei’s murmurs. The Butcher turned to the security camera in the corner of the room and smirked. He knew the Monk was watching.
He turned back to Junpei. “This drug, did he give you a name for it?”
He swallowed. “Said the streets call it Kurenai. ” Sukuna pressed his bare foot into the gaping wound on the kid’s knee, encouraging him to keep speaking. Junpei let out an animalistic whine. "He-my dealer is N-Naoki, Ito Naoki… please stop.” He breathed harshly through his nose when Sukuna removed the weight of his foot. “I’ve been buying from him for a few years. Weed, mostly. But this time… he pushed this new shit.” He paused, glancing at the security camera. “I-I tried one of the pills– I thought my brain was going to explode– and then I-” Sukuna’s mouth curved into a malicious sneer, knocking a hard fist onto his head. “And then your half-witted skull decided you could take a go in the Sixfold’s Pit. See what it could do against a beast like the Gravehound.” The boy shrank back.
Geto leaned back in his office chair. The feed crackled, a flicker of static, then Junpei started coughing, choking on his blood. Geto had stopped listening now. His mind was already moving. He looked up at Nanako, who was leaning against the door, waiting expectantly.
“Naiko’s a lightweight delivery boy– no spine on him. What business would he have with a drug like that?” Nanako furrowed her plucked brows with perplexity. She was right, of course. Naiko wasn’t a player, he had no license to distribute combat-enhancing drugs like this Kurenai. Geto’s sharp gaze met Nanako’s. “Someone gave him the go-ahead. He was merely a pawn in a much broader game.” He spun his chair to face the spacious glass windows, which overlooked Ikebukuro's dazzling lights. He took in a deep breath, his mind clouded with dread.
“Call Mimiko, tell her to find this dealer. He’s weak, he will start squeaking immediately.” Nanako nods, leaving the room. On the monitor, Sukuna stepped out of frame, leaving only Junpei– his beaten body lay against the Red Chair like an old rag. His choking hand stopped. The lights in the Maw flickered, barely illuminating a new shape which appeared on the wall above Junpei’s body.
A blood-marked Sixfold sigil.
One Geto hadn’t seen in ten years. He stared at it, unmoving. And the Monk felt a faint, unmistakable pulse of dread for the first time in a long time.