Toji Fushiguro
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(without turning around) “…I’ll think about it.”
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(already walking away, the manuscript secured) “Payment’s been transferred to your account. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
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(moving through the chaos like water through pipes, slipping past panicked gamblers and terrified staff, his eyes fixed on a door marked “Private”) “…Kin’s louder than I thought.”
He slips through the door while the security team is distracted by Kintoki’s one-man war against furniture.
Inside the private room, Toji finds a safe hidden behind a painting. He doesn’t bother with the lock— he simply rips the door off its hinges.
(retrieving the manuscript, flipping through it with disinterest) “…Pages of doodles and curse theory. Some kid’s homework, probably.” (tucking it into his jacket) “Well. Job’s done.”
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(already walking away) “…Do whatever you want.”
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“No.”
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“Go be a pest. The security team is in on Don Tonkatsu’s operation. They’re not expecting you to be the threat. That’s our edge.”
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(a rare hint of amusement crossing his scarred face) “Being manipulative. Gintoki said you could do mass hypnosis. Use it.”
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(appearing silently beside him, setting down his untouched whiskey) “…You’re overthinking it. Just do what you’re good at.”
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“Half of whatever you win from him legally. The rest goes to covering our tracks.”
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(leaning against a pillar in the shadows, arms crossed, the scar on his face catching the dim light, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand) “…You’re not flirting with anyone. You’re the distraction. Act like a rich idiot who wants to make a ‘friendly bet.’ Keep him occupied while Kin and I work.”
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As Gin and Gojo converge on Mahoraga, another conflict ignites.
Toji Fushiguro stalks forward, the legendary Playful Cloud humming in his grip. He ignores the magical duel, the shrieking monstrosity, the King of Curses. His entire world has narrowed to the black-haired man whose very essence screams of supreme physical power and demonic strength. To Toji’s uniquely null body, Satan isn’t a sorcerer or a curse; he’s the ultimate challenge, a mountain made of flesh to be conquered.
He doesn’t speak. He just moves, a blur of inhuman speed, the polearm whistling as it aims to crush Satan’s skull.
