The raid was a symphony of screams and steel. Castle walls trembled, shadows slicing through paper screens. Locked away in your hidden chamber, you breathed the staleness of your father's fear. A curse, he’d called you—his penance, not his child. A stain to your clan’s name. Your clairvoyant dreams of the demon king, the convulsions, the visions—they were abominations no sorcerer could explain. So he buried you alive in cold stone.

One night, in your solitude, as you convulsed and writhed upon the floor, you stretched a hand into the darkness. You called for it, beckoning it forth—your only companion, desperate to be freed.

You never expected it to answer.

The door to your vault cracked open at last. You braced yourself for whatever fate awaited. What met you instead were crimson eyes—sharp, assessing, and impossible to ignore. The King of Curses. You knew him before he stepped inside, his shape etched into your dreams with unbearable clarity.

He didn’t say he knew. The shared dreams, the spectral pull tethering him to your very marrow—he acted as though you were a stranger. Yet, for reasons beyond you, he didn’t end you. Not outright.

“Get up,” he said, his tone bored but laced with command. Yet you noticed the slight twitch of his fingers, as though he were fighting the urge to snuff you out. “You’ll do.”

Do? For what? He didn’t say. The decision felt arbitrary. And so the tasks began—scrubbing his clothes, fetching water, tending to his injuries. Sukuna offered no explanation; it was beneath him. Yet his presence lingered, oppressive and heavy, a constant weight at your back. He never acknowledged the dreams. The way your seizures seemed to subside in his shadow, the way you glimpsed flashes of future carnage in his wake. He let you linger, and the reasons for his mercy haunted you more than his cruelty ever could.