Cursed Eyes (Itachi in JJk)

He woke up.

In any other scenario, or if he were any other person, there would be nothing to it. Most people closed their eyes and opened them back up 5-6 hours later, like puppets controlled by unseen threads.
He was not like most people.

Most people didn't die bleeding out with blurred eyes and a sickly frame, only to wake up at an indescribable later time.

Pale gray eyes stared at the wooden beams above his head for what felt like ages, but his keen mind broke it down to only 1 hour, 24 minutes, and 56 seconds.
 Though his instincts screamed at him to roll off what his back told him was a futon and explore his new surroundings, all he wanted to do was just... nothing.

He was exhausted, beyond tired, and he hoped it had ended, but hope was a lie – he knew that more than most. Yet, here he was again, staring at a ceiling, knowing this was as real as anything. With his experience with genjutsu, it would take Kami himself to deceive his senses.

If left to himself, he would have languished there for however long, but as the sun slowly crept into his room, chasing away the comforting darkness and shadows, he heard a soft knock on what he assumed was a door. A second later, the door slid aside, and a soft and demure voice called out, "Jiki-san."

He stayed still, wishing the voice away, yet it called out again, softly, this time with more urgency, "The family head would be displeased if he knew you're still in bed"
 This time, the voice had a touch of fear and pain. Physical pain.

He raised himself up on one soft arm, idly noticing the little to no musculature, and looked at the black-haired woman standing at the entrance to his room. With a slow blink and another glance, he reassessed her from a woman to a teen, judging by her still soft cheeks, lack of any wrinkles, and the brightness of her eyes.

She was garbed in a black one-piece gown with a white cloth upon it.
 Her head remained bowed as he quietly observed her. With slow and unfamiliar movements, he got to his feet. The transition from a 5ft8 lethal physique bred for war to a 3ft toddling mass of soft flesh and poor motor control would've taken any other person months. But he had it down by the 10th second after getting up and on his 7th step towards the teen.

He went from jerky, uncoordinated movements to a refined, smooth pace, and his bare feet barely made a sound on the wooden floor. He stopped directly in front of her bowed head and whispered, "I'm up." 
She brought her head up and gave him a soft and familiar smile that reminded him of his mother – a smile that radiated immense love and kindness, a smile he smothered and laid to rest for the sake of peace.

Something must have shown in his expression, as the teen flinched back.
 Then followed an unfamiliar routine – he was led out of the house and to a bathroom. Stepping into the bathtub filled with water, he stared at a familiar face with unfamiliar features. The paradoxes of the statement forced him to narrow his eyes, showing his trademark lines below his gray eyes.

Bone-white hair fell down his head in waves and tickled his ears while masking his implacable visage of pure apathy. The maid rolled up her sleeves before taking up a pail of water and dumping it above his head.

He felt sensations he'd never imagined he'd ever feel again.
 The rest of the bath was a blur, culminating with the maid toweling him and dressing him in a white Hakama and a matching black and white checkered kimono, while his feet were clad in finely textured wooden geta.

He ignored the unfamiliar sensation of being dressed and stoically listened to the maid's incessant prattling. He learned that he was a member of the Gojo clan, and today was his fourth birthday, which meant he would be meeting the clan head. His elder cousin had also left earlier for Jujutsu High for his second year.

The walk to the clan head was more sedate and quiet, with the maid sending him nervous glances. He ignored them and followed her, a step behind and to the side.
They stepped out of the house and walked on well-paved cobblestones that led from his house, which he realized was on the outskirts of the clan compound, to the inner compound.

He ignored the stares from his black-haired clan members and the occasional white-haired member as they reached the house in the center – a traditional house that felt more like a fortress than a home. The closer they got, the more wooden his maid's posture, walking steps, and features became.

They stood in front of the door for seconds before she mustered the courage to finally knock. She barely touched the doors before they opened slowly. She stopped there and gave him a look that was equal parts fear, begging, and desperation. He stared into her eyes, gray into black, and tried to decipher what she was screaming at him with her eyes.

His efforts proved futile, so he did the only thing he hoped would ease her – he slipped his little pale hand into her rougher palms before giving it a slight squeeze. Her resulting grip was instinctual. He gave her a soft nod before heading in.
The door closed shut behind him, leaving him trapped in a dark house.

His eyes slowly adapted to the darkness as he patiently waited. The dark was not an enemy. It was as comforting as a mother's touch. He was born in it, molded by it. Half his life was spent in it. He had no fear of it.

He took soft steps as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, sliding his feet while leaving his arms folded in the kimono.
It took him a minute to reach the end of the hallway, where the door swung open and led him into a cavernous room with tatami mats spread out at the end. He let his eyes fall into a half-lidded gaze instead of blinking, as the harshness of the room's sudden light requested of him.

The room was ringed by bronze statues, each depicting a man sitting in seiza with extreme features ranging from maniacal smiles to wrathful expressions. All held prayer beads and looked at the person in the middle.
Even from his distance, he felt something malicious from the man seated in the middle. Not necessarily chakra, but an aura that permeated the surroundings and choked him in a way that almost made him stagger.

His wide eyes and hitched breath were his only show of emotion at the suffocating aura.
The elderly man opened his eyes and stared at him before nodding at a mat directly placed in front of him. He replied with his own nod before walking to it and sitting with his legs tucked and his hands placed palm-flat on his lap.

The elder closed his eyes once more, giving him the opportunity to study his features. Skin so pale, he must've never felt the sun in decades, yet bearing musculature that spoke of a fighter, with a black kimono that looked as though they were tailored for him as he sat, bearing nary a wrinkle.
His glance shifted to the statues surrounding them, cataloguing their features. He had barely started on the third before the man's eyes opened once more, and he gave him a look that drew his complete attention.
"Gojo Jiki," his voice came out raspy and rough. "Do you want to be a sorcerer?"