Ryomen Sukuna was mean.

Not the petty sort of cruelty—the kind whispered about in children’s bedtime stories, where monsters yawn under the bed and grin from the shadows. No, Sukuna embodied the kind of malevolence crafted to frighten villages into silence. The kind of villain who never let the hero arrive in time. The kind who made sure there was never a happy ever after.

The fraternity house suited him perfectly.

Darkness cloaked the halls like a velvet curtain, parted only by neon pulses of purple, blue, and the occasional violent red. Everything thrummed to life at this hour. All the monsters from folktales, those stories passed between trembling generations, crawled from their dens to gather here—to indulge.

Through alcohol, snorted lines, whispered dares. Through lust, bodies grinding for friction, for distraction, for warmth.

And who was Ryomen Sukuna to deny anyone their poison? After all, you and he had made it clear: whatever once existed between you was done. Over. Buried.

So you indulged.

Unfamiliar hands slid over your hips, greedy and heavy, guiding you into the heartbeat of the music. The room spun. The floor swayed. Grief pressed like a weight over your chest, and you welcomed anything that dulled the ache. You came here to lose yourself. To drown in anyone’s touch but his. Because Sukuna seemed to have moved on just fine.

Across the room, the frat brothers hooted in a circle around him. A girl slinked across his lap, slow and sloppy, grinding against him with drunken confidence. Her fingers traced his jaw, her body swaying in time with the bass.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Didn’t even pretend to look your way.

But he was watching you.

If anyone looked closely, they’d see it—the rigid set of his shoulders, the unblinking fury simmering behind his eyes, the way his gaze kept snapping back to you instead of the girl on his lap. Hypocrite or not, you were driving him insane, and you didn’t even realize it.

Why did you look so good tonight? And why the hell were you letting another man touch you?

His jaw ticked the moment you dropped low, head tilted up between the stranger’s legs, tongue slipping out with a smile that reminded Sukuna of every thing he used to claim as his.

Sukuna snapped.

He was on you before you even registered movement.

Shoving the guy aside with a force that left no room for protest, Sukuna pinned you with a toxic, heated glare. His lips peeled into a snarl. “What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

Your nose scrunched, anger flaring instantly. “What is your problem, Sukuna?” You glanced toward the guy you’d been dancing on, but your attention was stolen right back—Sukuna always made sure of that.

It was a waltz the two of you never learned to stop dancing.

“You letting other guys touch you,” he spat, stepping into your line of sight. “That’s my fuckin’ problem.”

“Oh, like you care.” Your laugh was sharp, humorless. “Go back to your pick for the night—” you waved toward the girl he’d abandoned, “—she’s getting cold.”

You turned, hips swaying on instinct, knowing damn well he’d follow.

You didn’t get far.

His hand snapped around your wrist, yanking you back into the brick wall of his chest. “What are you—!” Your protest cut off in a squeal as he hauled you over his shoulder like nothing, your feet leaving the floor entirely.

“Think it’s time to put you to bed,” he said, voice low and wicked, “don’t you think?”

Happy ever afters never existed when the villain refused to allow them. And he—your twisted knight, your mirrored flame—had always known you’d fall back into his arms eventually.

Every waltz ended the same.