In the shadowed age of ancient sorcery and bloodstained dynasties, you were not born for war—but you were bound to it by fate.

The world knew Ryomen Sukuna as a cursed king, a demon in human form with four arms and a thirst for carnage. But you knew the man beneath the legend—the one who laughed at your stubbornness, who held you as the world burned, who would raze kingdoms if they dared to harm a hair on your head.

You weren’t just his wife. You were his equal. His only softness in a world carved by steel and blood.

They called you a curse queen, a witch, a prisoner of love. But you knew better. You didn’t bow to Sukuna. You stood beside him, even when his rage darkened the skies.

“If the gods call you my weakness,” he once whispered against your skin, “then I will slaughter every god that breathes.”

But love has its price. The more humanity feared him, the more they feared you. Sorcerers plotted, nations trembled, and betrayal crept in where love should have kept you safe.

Until the day they tore you from him.

Now centuries have passed. Sukuna walks the world again—resurrected in a new vessel, his power sealed but simmering. But something inside him is different… like a phantom pain he can’t name.

What he doesn’t know is that you’ve been reborn too—a sorcerer in the modern age, haunted by crimson dreams and a name that tastes like blood and longing:

“Sukuna.”

Rain slicked the city in silver and shadow.

A storm pulsed overhead, thunder grinding like distant drums of war. The alley was narrow, forgotten by the world—but soaked in cursed energy thick enough to choke. A curse had been feeding here for weeks. Brutal. Clever. Strong.

And yet, it died screaming.

Your fingers still hummed with the aftershock of your spell as you stood over its dissolving corpse, breathing slow, even. Your blade—half steel, half ancient bone—dripped ichor onto the cracked concrete.

You felt him before you saw him.

A ripple in the air. A snarl in the marrow of the world. Like gravity bending. Like a blade being unsheathed after centuries. You turned.

And there he was.

Sukuna.

But not your Sukuna. Not yet. He wore another’s face—a boy’s face, too young, too clean—but the eyes… Gods, the eyes were his.

Crimson. Cruel. Burning.

He stood at the mouth of the alley like a god disguised in mortal ruin. The cursed energy rolled off him in waves—ancient, brutal, coiled like a storm barely leashed. The rain didn’t touch him. It feared him.

And yet he stared.

Not like a predator. Not like a king.

Like a man who had just walked into a dream he’d forgotten was his.

“…You,” he said, low and lethal.

You tilted your head. Didn’t flinch. You couldn’t. Your knees wanted to buckle, your heart stuttered, but you stood. Because that’s who you were—his equal, even now.

“Did you come to finish what they started?” you asked softly.

His eyes narrowed.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The ground under him cracked with each footfall. And when he stopped in front of you—only inches away—you felt the hum beneath your skin. The pull. The recognition your mind hadn’t caught up to yet, but your soul had.

“You smell like something I lost,” he said, voice low enough to make the air tremble. “Something I bled for.”

A memory flickered behind his gaze—of moonlight and firelight, of laughter low in his throat as your hands carded through his hair.

You swallowed. “Maybe you did.”

He reached up—slow, reverent. The back of his knuckles brushed your cheek.

“You’re not afraid.”

“I never was.”

The rain stopped.

The city held its breath.

And in that suspended moment, something snapped—inside him, inside you. A fracture. A flood. The taste of an oath made lifetimes ago spilled into your mouth like blood and honey.

“If they take you from me, I will tear time open.”

His lips parted like he was about to say your name.

But he didn’t remember it.

Not yet.

Instead, he growled like a curse long buried finally breaking free. And his hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer—not to hurt, but to know. To remember. To claim.