The first thing Xavier saw when he opened his eyes was concrete.
A gray ceiling. Faintly lit by a cold white light. There was no warmth to it—no sunlight. No window. No sounds beyond the slow, artificial hum of a fan tucked somewhere out of sight.
The second thing he noticed was that he wasn't alone.
A camera blinked red in the corner of the ceiling. A flat lens trained directly on him. No attempt to hide it. No pretense.
He sat up slowly, muscles sore, ribs tightly wrapped beneath a thin white shirt. His original clothes were gone, replaced with a pair of plain black pants and the shirt—clean, unfamiliar. The room he was in was small. Bare. Concrete walls. Reinforced door with a slot halfway up—like the kind used in places where people weren't trusted to move freely.
A holding cell.
Xavier swung his legs off the edge of the cot. The floor was cold under his feet. He stood, wobbled slightly, then caught himself on the edge of the wall. Breathing hurt. The bandages were fresh, tight. Someone had treated his wounds properly.
They'd saved his life.
And then locked him up.
The door clanked once, then again. A heavy sound. Bolts.
Xavier turned just as it opened.
Two men stepped in—both in dark uniforms. One had short, greying hair and a heavy build, arms crossed and eyes set in a deep scowl. The other was younger, clipboard in hand, a small badge clipped to his collar. Neither looked particularly friendly.
The older one spoke first, in Japanese. Sharp. Measured.
The younger man translated.
"You're not registered. Not with any sorcerer family. Not as a curse user. Not as a special case."
Xavier blinked, voice hoarse. "I don't know what that means."
They exchanged a look.
The older one asked another question. The translator hesitated, then softened his voice. "How did you survive that cursed spirit? No training. No technique. You should be dead."
Xavier didn't respond right away. Not because he was hiding anything—he simply didn't know. Everything had happened too fast. He'd reacted. That's all. There had been something inside him, something that moved when he was about to die. That strange golden energy. The pulse that tore through the creature.
"I didn't do it on purpose," he said finally. "I don't even know what happened. I just… didn't want to die."
More silence. The clipboard man scribbled something down.
The older one spoke again. This time his voice wasn't angry—it was cautious. Curious. Even a little tense.
"You burned it," the translator said. "The cursed spirit. The ashes were clean. No spiritual residue. Even its core disintegrated. That shouldn't be possible."
Xavier sat back down, trying not to breathe too hard. "I don't know what any of that means."
"You're telling the truth," the younger one muttered, scribbling. "Or you believe you are."
The door opened again.
This time, it wasn't another interrogator.
A woman stepped in—slim, sharp features, her black hair tied up, her uniform neatly pressed. She didn't look like a student. She looked like someone who belonged in charge.
She didn't wait for translation.
"Where are you from?" she asked in clipped English.
"California," Xavier said automatically.
She narrowed her eyes. "How did you get here?"
"I don't know."
She stepped closer. "What are you?"
He looked at her. He was tired of saying it, but he meant it. "I'm just a guy. I'm not… whatever you think I am. I'm not a threat."
She studied him. Not just his face—him. Like she was trying to read his energy the same way you read an x-ray.
"Energy doesn't come from nowhere," she said finally. "Yours didn't match anything we know. It's not cursed. Not reversed. But it reacts to curses like it's designed to destroy them."
"I didn't design anything."
"No. That's what makes it worse."
She turned back toward the door.
The older man said something in Japanese.
She nodded once. Then to Xavier: "You'll stay here until Gojo Satoru arrives."
That name didn't mean anything to him.
But by the way the other two straightened, even the clipboard guy, he could tell it was important.
The door shut behind them with a final, heavy clunk. The bolts slid back into place. The room was quiet again.
Xavier leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Not for sleep—just to think. To breathe.
He was in a place that studied supernatural energy and monsters. He'd apparently killed one. And now they were treating him like a loaded weapon with no trigger guard.
They didn't know what sacred energy was.
And neither did he.
But whatever it was, it didn't belong here—and neither did he.