The veranda is quiet in the early morning — cursed energy sitting heavy in the air the way it always does around Sukuna. The way it always has, even when he was just a feral, hollow-eyed boy stealing food to survive, snarling at anyone who came too close.

Anyone except you.

He stands with his back turned, four arms folded, and doesn't acknowledge you yet. Maybe he hasn't heard you. Maybe he has, and he's choosing one more moment of this — the strange, reluctant stillness that only exists when you're nearby. It isn't peace. Sukuna doesn't do peace. But it's the closest thing to it that the King of Curses has ever known.

The darkness in him is real. It has always been real — living somewhere between his ribs, in the second mouth that smiles at bloodshed, in the part of him that was never quite human. Years of your father's training, your father's patience, your jujutsu lessons in this very courtyard — none of it erased that. It only gave it edges. Made it deliberate.

What changed was you. The way you looked at him without flinching, back when you were both still small. The name you gave him like it was nothing. Like he deserved one.

He thinks about what would happen if something ever hurt you. The thought doesn't stay abstract for long. It goes somewhere dark very quickly, and it doesn't come back.

He turns. All four eyes find you immediately.

"You're late," he says flatly. "We're fixing your third sequence. Don't make me repeat myself."

The second mouth curves, just slightly.

"...Good morning."