The Juvenile Probation Services office occupies the third floor of a nondescript government building downtown.
The waiting area is a study in institutional blandness - beige walls, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and outdated magazines scattered across a central table.
A water cooler gurgles in the corner, providing the only sound besides the occasional click of the receptionist's keyboard.
I arrive ten minutes early for my appointment, as required by the terms of my probation. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with horn-rimmed glasses who knows me by name, nods in acknowledgment as I sign in.
"Ms. Chen will be with you shortly," she says, returning to her computer.
I take a seat, pulling out the completed check-in form from my backpack.
The form is straightforward - a record of my activities for the past week, confirmation of my attendance at school, and a section for any incidents or concerns.
I've filled it out meticulously, knowing that even minor inconsistencies could trigger unwanted scrutiny.
At precisely 4:30, the door to the inner offices opens, and Lin Chen emerges.
She's in her early thirties, with a sleek bob haircut and the perpetually alert expression of someone who's heard every excuse in the book and believes none of them.
According to my memories, she's been my probation officer since my release from juvenile detention eight months ago - tough but fair, and genuinely invested in keeping me on the right path.
"Megumi," she greets me with a professional nod. "Come on in."
I follow her through the door and down a short hallway to her office. The space is small but efficiently organized, with a desk, two chairs, and filing cabinets along one wall.
Unlike the waiting area, Ms. Chen has personalized her workspace with a few touches - a small plant on the windowsill, a framed diploma from the University of Michigan, and a calendar featuring national parks.
"Have a seat," she says, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. "How was your week?"
I hand her the check-in form as I sit down. "Fine. No issues."
She scans the form quickly, her eyes moving methodically down the page. "School attendance is good.
I see Mr. Washington signed off on your community service hours for last Saturday. And you're scheduled for another cleanup tomorrow?"
"Yes. Eight to noon at the community center."
She makes a note in my file. "And how are things at home? Your uncle is working extra shifts this weekend?"
"He is. Night shifts at the hospital. But I'm staying at a friend's tonight, and I've got the cleanup tomorrow morning."
"This friend would be...?" she asks, though I'm certain she already knows the answer. Ms. Chen is nothing if not thorough.
"Mark Grayson," I reply. "And then on Sunday, I'm having dinner with his family."
Something like approval flickers across her face. "The Graysons. Good. They're a stable influence." She closes my file and leans back slightly in her chair, studying me.
"You've been consistent these past few months, Megumi. That's commendable."
I nod, accepting the praise without comment.
"How are you feeling about the upcoming transition?" she asks, shifting to a more personal line of questioning. "Your probation ends in four months. Have you given any thought to what comes next?"
The question catches me off guard. What comes next? If the timeline follows the comics, what comes next is global catastrophe.
Omni-Man's betrayal, the Viltrumite invasion, the reshaping of Earth's power structures. My personal plans seem laughably irrelevant in that context.
But of course, Ms. Chen is expecting a normal teenager's response - thoughts about college, perhaps, or career aspirations.
"I've been looking at pre-med programs," I say, drawing on Megumi's memories. "My uncle thinks I could get into State with my grades, maybe with a partial scholarship."
She nods approvingly. "Medicine. Following in your uncle's footsteps?"
"Something like that."
"It's a good path. Demanding, but with your academic abilities and..." she pauses, choosing her words carefully, "your unique perspective on human behavior, you could be successful."
I suppress a smile at her diplomatic phrasing. My "unique perspective" being that of someone who once ran with a street crew and has seen the darker side of humanity firsthand.
"Have you discussed this with Dr. Levine?" she asks, referring to the therapist I apparently see bi-weekly.
"Not in detail," I admit. "It's still just an idea."
"Well, I think you should. She can help you develop a concrete plan." Ms. Chen makes another note in my file. "Speaking of Dr. Levine, your next appointment with her is Tuesday, correct?"
"Yes. After school."
"Good." She closes the file decisively. "Unless you have any concerns you'd like to discuss, I think we're done for today. Same time next Friday?"
"I'll be here."
She stands, extending her hand. "Keep up the good work, Megumi. You're proving that people can change when they commit to it."
I shake her hand, feeling a twinge of guilt at the deception. The real Megumi Fushiguro might indeed have changed, might have been working toward a better future.
But I'm not him, and the future I'm preparing for is far different from what Ms. Chen envisions.
The meeting concludes, and I head out of the government building into the late afternoon sunshine.
William's house is a twenty-minute walk from downtown, in a middle-class neighborhood of modest single-family homes with well-kept lawns.
According to my memories, his parents are both teachers - his father at the local community college, his mother at an elementary school.
When I arrive, William is already setting up the game system in his basement rec room, a comfortable space with a worn couch, a large TV, and shelves crammed with books, games, and collectible figures.
"How'd the probation thing go?" he asks without looking up from the tangle of cords he's sorting through.
"Fine. Just the usual check-in."
"Cool. Mark texted - he'll be here in about half an hour. Something about helping his dad move furniture." William finally gets the system connected and turns to me with a grin.
"Want to practice before he gets here? I've already unlocked most of the characters."
We spend the next hour immersed in the game, a fighting title featuring exaggerated versions of real-world heroes like The Immortal and War Woman.
It's strange seeing digital representations of people who, in this reality, actually exist - people who, if the timeline holds true, will soon be dead at Omni-Man's hands.
Mark arrives eventually, letting himself in with the casual familiarity of a frequent visitor. He looks slightly disheveled, his hair windswept and his t-shirt wrinkled.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, dropping onto the couch beside me. "Dad had me helping rearrange his study. The man has more books than a library."
"No problem," William says, passing him a controller. "We've just been warming up. Megumi's already figured out all the cheap moves with Darkwing."
Mark snorts. "Of course he has. He always goes for the tactical advantage."
I shrug, not denying it. From what I can gather from the memories, Megumi's approach to games - as with most things - is methodical and strategic, focused on efficiency rather than flash.
Something we share in common I suppose.
The next few hours pass in a blur of virtual combat, pizza delivery, and the kind of easy banter that comes from years of friendship.
Despite the surreal circumstances, I find myself genuinely enjoying the experience.
There's something comforting about the simplicity of it all - three teenagers playing video games on a Friday night, with no immediate concerns beyond who's hogging the pizza or using cheap combat moves.
By the time we call it quits, it's past nine, and William's parents have poked their heads in twice to check on us.
Mark and I gather our things, thanking William for hosting and making vague plans to meet up again over the weekend.
"Remember, dinner on Sunday," Mark reminds me as we walk back to his house in the cool evening air. "Mom said to be there by five."
"I'll remember," I assure him, adjusting my backpack on my shoulder.
---------------------------------
Mark's home is in a nicer neighborhood than William's - larger houses, more manicured lawns,
the kind of suburban prosperity that comes with having a successful science novelist for a mother and a superhero for a father (though of course, the neighbors don't know about that last part).
The Grayson house is a two-story colonial with a well-kept garden and a basketball hoop over the garage.
As we approach, I can see lights on in the kitchen, and through the window, the silhouette of Debbie Grayson moving about, likely preparing a late snack for her son and his friend.
"Mom's still up," Mark notes unnecessarily. "She always waits for me to get home, even when I tell her not to."
There's a fondness in his voice that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly. Mark loves his mother deeply, and that relationship will be tested to its limits when the truth about Nolan emerges.
In the comics, Debbie Grayson's world was shattered by her husband's betrayal. Will the same happen here? And if so, is there anything I can do to mitigate that pain?
No, stop thinking about these things. These thoughts are a luxury. What's important now is to survive, to prosper, to set things up to eventually enjoy life, experience all its pleasures.
These thoughts occupy me as we enter the house, greeted by the warm smell of baking and Debbie's cheerful welcome.
"There you are! I was beginning to think you'd decided sleep at William's after all." She comes forward to give Mark a quick hug, then turns to me with a warm smile.
"Megumi, it's good to see you. Are you hungry? I just took some cookies out of the oven."
"Always room for cookies, Mom," Mark answers for both of us, already moving toward the kitchen.
I follow, offering a polite "Thank you, Mrs. Grayson" as she ushers us to the kitchen table and sets out a plate of chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven, along with two glasses of milk.
"Your father's still in his study," she tells Mark as we dig in. "He's been working on that article for the science journal all evening."
Mark nods, mouth full of cookie. "We rearranged the whole room so he could have a better view while he writes."
"Well, he appreciates your help, even if he doesn't always say it." She turns to me. "Mark says you'll be joining us for dinner on Sunday, Megumi. I'm making pot roast."
"Looking forward to it," I say, and am surprised to find that I mean it, at least partially. The prospect of sitting across from Nolan Grayson is both terrifying and fascinating.
Debbie stays with us for a few minutes, asking about our evening and the video game tournament, before excusing herself to finish some work before bed.
Once she's gone, Mark leads me upstairs to the guest room, a comfortable space with a twin bed, a desk, and a bookshelf filled with a eclectic mix of titles.
"Bathroom's down the hall," he reminds me, though according to my memories, I've stayed over enough times to know the layout of the house well.
"Mom usually makes breakfast around eight on Saturdays, but we can grab something earlier if you need to get to the community center."
"Eight works," I tell him. "The cleanup doesn't start until eight-thirty."
"Cool." He hovers in the doorway for a moment, as if wanting to say something else, then simply nods. "Night, Megumi."
"Goodnight, Mark."
After he leaves, I sit on the edge of the bed, taking in the quiet normalcy of the Grayson household.
Somewhere in this house, Omni-Man - Nolan Grayson - is working on a scientific article, playing the role of accomplished author and devoted family man.
The perfect cover for a Viltrumite agent sent to weaken Earth for conquest.
And here I am, playing my own role as reformed delinquent Megumi Fushiguro, while harboring the memories of a cursed spirit king and knowledge of a future apocalypse.
What a pair we make.
-------------------------------
The weekend passes in a blur of activity. Saturday morning is consumed by the community cleanup, where I work alongside Amber and other volunteers to remove trash from a local park, all under the watchful eye of Officer Rodriguez and Mr. Washington.
The Purple Dragons make no appearance, much to my relief. I'm not ready to deal with gang complications on top of everything else.
Saturday afternoon and evening are spent with Mark and William, playing more video games and watching a sci-fi movie that feels - now after everything - laughably inaccurate given what I know about actual alien civilizations like the Viltrumites.
I return to my uncle's apartment that night, checking in as promised and finding him asleep after another long hospital shift.
Sunday morning is quiet - I use the time to practice my cursed energy techniques in the privacy of my room, making incremental progress in controlling the flow of power.
By mid-afternoon, I'm preparing for dinner at the Graysons', showering and changing into what Megumi's memories suggest is appropriate attire for a family dinner -
since I've never been to one since I was a kid in my original life - dark jeans and a button-up shirt, casual but neat.
I arrive at the Grayson house at 4:55 PM, precisely five minutes before the invited time. Mark answers the door, looking unusually well-groomed in a collared shirt and khakis.
"Mom's gone full formal dinner mode," he explains in a low voice as he lets me in. "Dad's actually wearing a tie."
The significance isn't lost on me. This isn't just a casual meal; it's something of an occasion.
I follow Mark to the living room, where Nolan Grayson stands by the fireplace, drink in hand, engaged in conversation with Debbie.
He turns as we enter, and I get my first close look - my own, not Megumi's memories - at Omni-Man in his civilian guise.
He's tall and powerfully built, with the perfect physique of a Viltrumite warrior barely concealed by his business casual attire.
His mustache is immaculately groomed, his smile practiced and charming. Only his eyes betray a hint of something else - a coldness, an alienness that I doubt most humans would notice.
One that I do simply from having seen it so much in my own - Sukuna's water reflection.
"Megumi," Nolan says, rising from his seat with a practiced smile. "Good to see you again. It's been some time."
I take his extended hand, acutely aware that I'm touching someone who could crush my bones to dust without effort. "Thank you for having me over, Mr. Grayson."
His handshake is perfectly calibrated - firm but not overpowering, the grip of someone who has spent centuries learning to mimic human social cues.
"Please, call me Nolan. I understand you've been quite the positive influence on Mark lately."
There's something in his tone - a subtle assessment - that makes me wonder if he's genuinely pleased or merely evaluating potential threats in his son's life.
"Dad barely remembers Megumi," Mark says with a hint of exasperation. "He's met you what, twice in three years?"
"Three times, actually," Nolan corrects smoothly. "Though our interactions have been regrettably brief. My work schedule has been particularly demanding these past few years."
"Science waits for no man," I say, echoing a phrase I've apparently heard him use before, according to Megumi's memories.
Nolan's eyebrow raises slightly, seemingly pleased by the recognition. "Precisely. You have a good memory."
"Dinner's almost ready," Debbie announces from the doorway. "Megumi, would you mind helping Mark set the table?"
I follow Mark to the dining room, where he begins laying out plates and silverware with the practiced efficiency of someone who's performed this task countless times.
"Sorry about my dad," he says quietly as we work. "He's always like this - acts like he barely knows my friends even when he's met them before."
"It's fine," I assure him, placing napkins beside each plate. "He seems... preoccupied."
I don't know if Mark's told his dad that I know about him being Omni-Man, better not test it,.
Mark snorts softly. "That's one way to put it. Usually, he doesn't even make this much effort."
We finish setting the table just as Debbie brings in the pot roast, a magnificent centerpiece surrounded by roasted vegetables.
Nolan follows with a bottle of wine for the adults and a pitcher of water for Mark and me.
As we take our seats - Nolan at the head of the table, Debbie to his right, Mark to his left, and me beside Mark - I can't help but marvel at the surreal normalcy of it all.
Here I am, having Sunday dinner with the family of Earth's greatest hero, who is secretly its greatest threat.
"So, Megumi," Nolan says as Debbie serves the food, "Mark tells me you're quite the scholar these days. Interested in medicine, I understand?"
I nod, accepting a plate loaded with pot roast and vegetables. "I'm considering it. My uncle's a nurse, so I've grown up around the medical field."
"A noble profession," Nolan comments. "The human body is a fascinating machine, though remarkably fragile."
There's something in his tone - a clinical detachment - that sends a chill down my spine. To him, humans are indeed just fragile machines, inferior specimens to be studied and ultimately subjugated.
"Megumi's at the top of our biology class," Mark adds proudly. "Mr. Donovan says he's got the best grasp of anatomy he's seen in years."
"Is that so?" Nolan's gaze sharpens slightly, his interest seemingly piqued. "A natural aptitude, or the result of dedicated study?"
"Both, I guess," I reply, careful to maintain the persona of a bright but troubled student. "I find it interesting how systems work together - how everything connects."
"Indeed." Nolan takes a sip of his wine.
"The interconnectedness of biological systems is a principle that extends far beyond Earth. In my research, I've found similar patterns across various species."
"Nolan," Debbie interjects with a gentle smile, "let's not turn dinner into a science lecture. I'm sure the boys would rather discuss something else."
"Of course, dear." Nolan shifts gears smoothly.
"I believe the last time we spoke at any length, Megumi, you were having some... difficulties at school. Mark mentioned you're involved in some sort of community service program now?"
The question is innocuous enough, but I sense a subtle probing. Is he genuinely curious, or is he truly as I suspected earlir assessing potential threats to his plans for Mark, cataloging the humans in his son's life?
"It's part of my probation requirements," I answer honestly, seeing no reason to hide what he could easily discover. "I help with neighborhood cleanups, community center events, that sort of thing."
"Probation?" Nolan's eyebrow rises slightly. "I wasn't aware it had gone that far."
"Dad," Mark says, a warning note in his voice.
"It's okay," I tell Mark before addressing Nolan directly. "I made some bad choices a while back. Got involved with the wrong crowd. I'm working to move past it."
Nolan studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. "Rehabilitation rather than punishment. A sensible approach for young offenders. On Viltrum-"
He catches himself, clearing his throat. "In some of the Scandinavian countries I've studied, they've found similar approaches to be quite effective."
The slip catches me completely off guard. Did Nolan Grayson, the most calculating being on the planet, just make a careless error? Or was it deliberate - a test to gauge my reaction?
I keep my expression neutral, taking a bite of pot roast to cover any momentary surprise.
No, this simply confirms it, Mark must have already told him about me knowing. No way he - a man of his experience would make such a blunder.
"Scandinavian countries are ahead of us in many ways," I say smoothly, maintaining the flow of conversation. "Their rehabilitation rates are impressive."
Nolan's eyes linger on me for a fraction too long before he nods. "Indeed. Their social systems are built on different foundations than ours. More... cohesive."
The way he says "cohesive" carries an undertone I can't quite place - admiration, perhaps, or a hint of the Viltrumite ideology that values unity through strength and obedience.
"Speaking of different systems," Debbie interjects, clearly sensing the strange tension, "Mark tells me you've been helping him with biology. His grades have improved significantly this quarter."
"Mom," Mark groans, embarrassed. "I'm not failing anymore. That's hardly 'significant improvement.'"
"Not failing is better than the alternative," Nolan comments dryly, his attention shifting to his son. "Though I'd prefer to see you excelling, not merely scraping by."
I watch the family dynamic unfold, fascinated by the layers of meaning. To an outside observer, this is just a father pushing his son to achieve more.
But knowing what I do about Nolan's true nature, every expectation he places on Mark carries the weight of a thousand-year-old eugenic program designed to produce the perfect Viltrumite warriors.
Or, the theories from my previous life are true - that Nolan didn't wish for Mark to develop his abilities, wanting to wait for them to die of old age before he committed his conquest.
I should keep both in my mind, and prepare for both cases.
"Mark's doing fine," I say, feeling a strange protectiveness toward my friend. "The material gets more complex this semester. Everyone's struggling a bit."
Nolan turns his gaze back to me, and for a moment, I feel like I'm being assessed on a molecular level. "You seem to manage well enough."
"Different strengths," I reply with a shrug. "Mark helps me with English lit. I can analyze biological systems, but ask me to interpret Steinbeck, and I'm lost."
This earns a genuine laugh from Debbie. "That's what friendship should be - complementary skills.
When Nolan and I first met, he couldn't cook to save his life. I was hopeless with technology."
"Still are, dear," Nolan says with surprising warmth, reaching over to squeeze her hand.
The gesture is so natural, so human, that it momentarily throws me.
Despite wishing to take option two into consideration - everything I know about what's coming, everything I know he will do, seeing him like this, that there's genuine affection there...
It makes the inevitable betrayal all the more tragic.
The conversation shifts to safer topics after that - school events, local news, a charity fundraiser Debbie is helping organize.
Throughout it all, I remain hyperaware of Nolan's presence, cataloging every gesture, every inflection, searching for clues about his timeline - all while not making it obvious.
Despite my desire for seperation of it, in some ways I am still Sukuna, I know when to hide my observation.
It is after all how I learned Jujutsu so well, since I never had a teacher, I had to observe sorcerers I killed at a young age.
After the main course, Debbie brings out an apple pie for dessert, served with vanilla ice cream.
As we eat, Mark regales his parents with stories from our video game tournament at William's, complete with dramatic reenactments of particularly impressive victories.
"You should have seen Megumi," he says enthusiastically.
"He figured out this combo move with Darkwing that nobody could counter. Even William was impressed, and he's been playing that game since the beta."
"Strategy and timing," I say modestly. "It's just pattern recognition."
"Pattern recognition is a valuable skill," Nolan comments. "In combat especially, the ability to anticipate an opponent's next move can mean the difference between victory and defeat."
There it is again - that subtle shift from civilian conversation to warrior perspective.
I wonder if Mark notices these slips, these glimpses of his father's true nature, or if they're so woven into the fabric of their relationship that they seem normal to him.
"Is that how you approach your science writing, Mr. Grayson?" I ask, deliberately steering the conversation back to his cover identity. "Looking for patterns across different fields?"
He seems pleased by the question. "Precisely. The universe operates on fundamental principles that repeat at various scales.
My current article examines how certain biological adaptations mirror astronomical phenomena - a kind of cosmic symmetry."
"Sounds fascinating," I say, and mean it. Despite everything, Nolan Grayson is genuinely brilliant.
His scientific insights, even those filtered through the lens of human understanding, represent knowledge accumulated across centuries of interstellar experience.
"Perhaps you'd like to read it when it's published," he offers. "I could have Mark bring you a copy."
"I'd like that," I reply, surprised by the offer.
The meal concludes with coffee for the adults and more casual conversation. Throughout it all, I maintain the persona of Megumi -
respectful, intelligent, with occasional flashes of the street-smart edge that would be expected from someone with my background.
But beneath that facade, my mind is still racing, analyzing every interaction, every nuance of Nolan's behavior.
When it's time for me to leave, Debbie insists on packing leftovers for my uncle, and Nolan surprises me by walking me to the door alongside Mark.
"It was good to have a proper conversation with you, Megumi," he says as we reach the entryway.
"I'm pleased to see the positive direction you've taken. Mark benefits from having focused friends."
There's a weight to his words that goes beyond simple approval. Is he genuinely impressed by my rehabilitation, or is he merely categorizing me as a non-threat to whatever plans he has for Mark?
"Thank you for having me, sir," I reply, defaulting to formality. "Dinner was excellent."
"You're welcome here anytime," he says, and though the invitation is standard politeness,
there's something assessing in his gaze that makes me wonder if he's detected something unusual about me - some hint that I'm not quite what I appear to be.
Mark walks me the rest of the way to the door, both of us carrying containers of leftovers that Debbie has packed.
"So," he says as we step onto the porch, "that wasn't too painful, right? Dad was actually being social for once."
"It was nice," I assure him. "Your parents are great."
Mark smiles, though there's a hint of something wistful in his expression. "Yeah, they are. Even if Dad can be... intense sometimes."
If only he knew just how intense his father truly is.
"See you at school tomorrow?" he asks.
I nod. "Bright and early."
As I walk home through the quiet suburban streets, container of leftover pot roast in hand, I replay the dinner conversation in my mind.
Nolan's slip about Viltrum was concerning - if indeed he does not know I know. I at first catagorized it as him knowing because of his experience making such a blunder unsuitable for him, but what if there was more to it?
What if he's becoming less careful about maintaining his cover, it might indicate that he's preparing to move forward with whatever timeline the Viltrumites have established for Earth.
Or perhaps I'm looking too much into it and it was simply a momentary lapse - I have to acknowledge that he isn't perfect.
Even a being as disciplined as Nolan Grayson might occasionally let his guard down in the comfort of his home, among family and a guest he's met several times before.
Either way, I need to accelerate my own preparations. The cursed energy techniques I've been practicing are coming more easily now, but they're still far from what I'd need to face a Viltrumite.
Not that I plan to confront Nolan directly - that would be suicide at my current expected level. But when the chaos begins, I'll need every advantage I can muster just to survive.
I reach my uncle's apartment building and make my way up to our unit.
The lights are off - he's working another night shift - but there's a note on the kitchen counter: "Hope dinner went well. Leftovers in the fridge if you're still hungry. Don't forget your therapy appointment Tuesday. - Uncle K."
I add Debbie's containers to the refrigerator and settle at the kitchen table, suddenly feeling the weight of the day.
Playing my role as Megumi, navigating the complexities of his life while carrying the knowledge of what's to come - it's exhausting in ways I hadn't anticipated.
And now there's this new complication: I genuinely like the Graysons. Debbie's warmth, Mark's friendship, even Nolan's brilliant mind - all of it makes what's coming feel more personal, more tragic.
I rest my head in my hands, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability in the empty apartment.
The memories are exhausting.
Sukuna's memories remain vivid but separate, a dark archive I can access without being consumed by it.
The ones from my own original life before this bizarre transmigration feel still personal, but...
But Megumi's memories - his experiences, his relationships, his daily life - those are becoming more integrated with my own consciousness.
I'm not becoming him, exactly, but the boundaries are blurring.
His memories with Mark and the others are influencing my own perceptions, rising my empathy, complicating what should be simple strategic calculations.
I push away from the table and head to my room, determined to regain my focus.
Tomorrow is Monday - another day of school, of maintaining my cover, of gathering information and building my strength.
I can't afford to be distracted by emotional entanglements, no matter how genuine they might feel.
As I prepare for bed, I catch sight of myself in the mirror - Megumi's face, with its sharp features and serious expression, looking back at me.
For a moment, I wonder what the real Megumi Fushiguro would make of all this - his body inhabited by a stranger, his life repurposed for survival in a coming apocalypse.
Would he understand? Would he approve of how I'm using his connections, his reputation, his second chance at a decent life?
It doesn't matter, I tell myself firmly. He's gone, and I'm here, and all that matters now is surviving what's coming.
But as I drift off to sleep, I can't quite shake the feeling that I'm becoming invested in this borrowed life in ways I never intended - and that those attachments might ultimately prove either my salvation or my downfall.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all liked the chapter.
See it's like this. We humans - most of us, are emphatetic beings. I personally am so I take it into consideration when writing my MC. We put ourselves in people's shoes and feel empathy towards them.
The memories of Megumi aren't making him have Megumi's emotions, but more context that makes him more empathetic towards Mark, who's just a geniunely great guy.
So yeah, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, see you all later,
Bye!)