Jujutsu Kaisen: I am Jogoat

It was a chilly night, and the glow of a TV screen was the only light illuminating the room. A young man sat on the edge of his couch, eyes wide with anticipation as he watched the latest episode of Jujutsu Kaisen, his heart racing with every twist and turn of the plot. He was a fan—no, more than that. His life was entwined with the stories of Fire Force and Jujutsu Kaisen. He'd spent hours analyzing the characters, the powers, the world-building, and of course, he loved the clash of ideologies, of cursed energy, and the fires of the Special Fire Force. Every fight, every battle, every intense emotional moment fueled his imagination.

But on this night, he wasn't just watching as a fan. His body, exhausted from long hours at work, finally succumbed to the stress. His eyelids grew heavy as he leaned back in the chair, the screen's glow dancing in his half-lidded vision. And then, without warning, darkness fell. The kind of darkness you can't wake from.

The first thing he noticed when he awoke was the cold. It clung to his skin like a shroud, suffocating and unfamiliar. His body felt wrong—heavy and weak. His limbs sluggishly moved, and his breathing was shallow. His heart was racing in a way that didn't make sense.

As his vision cleared, the world around him began to take shape. An abandoned building, crumbling walls, broken windows letting the cold wind inside—this was not the warm comfort of his living room. He groaned, pushing himself up against the debris-strewn floor, his muscles protesting with every movement.

And then, his stomach growled.

It was a sound so loud, so forceful, that it echoed through the empty space, reverberating against the cracked walls. It was not just hunger. It was a craving, an insatiable need to fill the emptiness within him. He could feel it gnawing at him, clawing its way through his insides.

Through the haze of his confusion, he heard something—a soft, wet cough. He turned, eyes locking onto the source of the sound. A man lay sprawled on the floor in front of him, barely alive. His body was battered, covered in wounds, and he was breathing raggedly, his life slipping away with each shallow inhale. The man's face was a contorted mask of agony, his once vibrant eyes clouded with the approach of death.

Without thinking, the hunger inside him surged, blinding everything else. He moved swiftly, the gnawing in his stomach driving him. His hands, trembling but desperate, grabbed hold of the dying man. He could feel the man's life force slipping away, but something—something inside of him—demanded that he eat. The urge was primal, overwhelming.

He tore into the flesh, the taste of blood and decay filling his mouth. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the hunger. He ate, devoured the body, the man's strength, his memories, his very essence seeping into him. As he consumed, he felt a strange sensation wash over him. His body, once weak, suddenly surged with energy. The strength of the dying man was now his.

And then, something even stranger happened.

His reflection in the cracked mirror nearby—he looked different. His features were distorted, twisted, and yet familiar. The man's face, the one he had consumed, seemed to merge with his own. His body felt new—strange but somehow… powerful.

He staggered to his feet, looking at his transformed body. His once thin frame was now muscular, his features sharp, and his hair, dark and unruly, looked almost… fiery. He was unrecognizable—yet he could feel the man's presence in him, in the way his muscles moved, in the way his body stood.

He was no longer himself.

In the midst of the confusion, the hunger began to settle. It wasn't gone entirely, but it was no longer as overwhelming. Now, a feeling of… greed filled him. His power had shifted, and with it, an understanding. Whatever he ate, he could gain their abilities. He could take what they had, and it would become his. The thought lingered, and a sinister smile formed on his face.

He couldn't stay here. His newfound strength, his unfamiliar body—it was too much to ignore. He needed to test it. He needed to survive.

With that, he left the building.

The world outside was dark, the streets eerily quiet. He moved swiftly, his senses heightened, the air tasting sharper, colder. His stomach rumbled again, demanding food. The craving was back, but this time, it wasn't just for survival. It was an insatiable desire, a need to grow stronger.

He moved through the shadows, slipping between alleys, until he found it—a small convenience store. The windows were cracked, the sign flickering weakly in the dark. The door was unlocked, and he entered, his footsteps silent on the cold tile floor.

There was a man behind the counter, an older gentleman with a tired expression. He looked up as the door opened, and his eyes widened slightly.

"You—what do you want?" the man asked, voice shaky.

The hunger surged again. It was impossible to ignore. His gaze locked onto the man, and for a moment, he could hear the sound of his own pulse in his ears. He moved forward, almost instinctively. But as he reached the counter, his senses flared.

A strange presence lingered just outside the store. Another figure was nearby, watching him.

The door to the store creaked open, and the man froze. A tall figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light from outside. The figure's presence was intimidating, his aura sharp, dangerous.

It was Toji Fushiguro.

The man, this Toji, studied him for a moment, then smirked.

"Not bad," Toji said, his voice low and dangerous. "You're different. What are you?"

The young man felt a rush of heat, as though the blood within him were boiling. He clenched his fists, and before he knew it, words tumbled out.

"Can you teach me?" he asked, his voice desperate. "I need to learn. I need to become stronger."

Toji's smirk widened, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of amusement, maybe even curiosity. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, studying him with an air of indifference.

"Stronger, huh? You don't even know what you're asking for."

The young man's gaze hardened. "I do," he said, though his voice cracked slightly. "I need power. To survive. To be something more."

Toji's laugh was dark, almost mocking. But he didn't turn away. He studied the young man for a long moment before nodding.

"Fine," Toji said, his voice cold and final. "I'll teach you. But don't think this will be easy. You'll have to prove yourself."

The young man nodded eagerly, his heart pounding in his chest. This was his chance. This was everything he had wanted. The hunger, the greed—it would be his strength. And now, with Toji Fushiguro, he would learn how to wield it.

Days passed, and the young man, now taking the name Jogo—after the cursed spirit—trained relentlessly under Toji's harsh guidance. Every lesson was a test, every move was a challenge. His body, still not fully accustomed to the transformation, ached with every attempt. But the power he had gained from consuming the dying man, the abilities he had absorbed, only grew stronger.

With each passing day, he learned more about his power, more about what it meant to take what he wanted. His hunger never fully went away, but it became a tool, a weapon to fuel his ambition.

And though Toji was cold and often dismissive, the young man—Jogo—knew that he was on the path to something greater. The world would soon know his name.