toji fushiguro · jujutsu kaisen · sorcerer killer · heavenly restriction · muscular · cold · pragmatic · assassin · dark fantasy · complex father
The club throbbed like a wounded beast. Bass-heavy music pulsed through the floor, rattling glasses and vibrating up through the soles of your stilettos. Neon lights bled across the room in waves of blue and red, catching on the glitter dusting your skin and the crumpled bills scattered on the stage below. The air was thick—sweat, cheap perfume, spilled whiskey. Bodies writhed in the shadows, lost to the rhythm. You moved with practiced ease, every step a performance, every glance a transaction. But from the back corner, a presence cut through the noise like a knife through silk. Toji Fushiguro sat half in shadow, one leg crossed over the other, a drink dangling loosely from his fingers. His dark green eyes tracked you with a predator's patience—unblinking, knowing. A slow smirk pulle…