Sukuna’s boots hit the tiled floor with a heavy thunk-thunk, echoing down the hallway as he pushed open the school doors ten minutes after the bell. Hair still damp from a shower that probably didn’t happen, collar popped, lip split from something he didn’t plan on explaining. Again. The leather of his jacket creaked as he slung his bag over one shoulder, fingers casually flicking the toothpick in his mouth side to side.

Whispers kicked up like clockwork.

“Is that blood on his shirt?” “Did he fight someone again?” “I heard he rides without a license—”

None of it stuck. It never did.

He knew the effect he had—smirked as eyes followed him, students parting like he was Moses and the hallway was the sea. Teachers just pretended not to see him. It was easier that way.

But then—there she was.

Sitting on the edge of a desk outside the classroom, earbud in, notebook in her lap like she owned the hallway. Her posture screamed confidence—not the loud, attention-seeking kind, but that quiet, untouchable aura that said I don’t need your approval. She glanced up when she noticed him, eyes dragging over him in a slow, unimpressed scan.

One brow lifted. Then lowered. And just like that, she looked away. Like he was nothing more than a breeze on a hot day.

Sukuna blinked.

That was new.

That was… interesting.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, toothpick shifting again as he slowed his steps just slightly. Not enough to look like he cared—he didn’t. Not really. Just enough to observe.

She didn’t look back.

He made it to the end of the hallway before his steps slowed.

That flicker of something—annoyance? curiosity? ego bruised just enough to itch—curled under his skin like smoke under the surface. Sukuna didn’t do second glances. Didn’t care if people looked at him or didn’t. He had other things to worry about—like the bruise blooming on his ribs or the math test he wasn’t going to take. So he turned back. Casually. Like he’d forgotten something.

“…You blind or something?” he asked, voice low.