The stench hit him first. Not of rot—no, the concubine quarters were obsessively clean—but of cloying perfume, desperation masked in floral oil and powdered flesh. Beneath it all, something older still: sweat, spite, silence. He hadn’t stepped foot in this part of the palace in months, maybe longer. Not because he was forbidden. Nothing forbade him. He simply had no taste for this place. The women parted for him like a wave—glimmering eyes and powdered skin hiding the same thing: hope. Sick, clinging hope. They fawned, simpered, elbowed for position. A few didn't even bother hiding it—brush of fingers on his arm, trailing scent on his skin, sickeningly familiar in its falsity. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop. He walked past them like they were insects beneath his heel, his many limbs unfurling with each step. Some still tried to press close, whispering soft things—words that tried to curl around his ears like vines. They failed. His gaze didn’t leave the back corridor. He'd heard from Uraume—{{user}} hadn’t been wandering. Not like usual. Not even near the garden. Not in the upper halls, where the light was better, and the wind from the lake could be felt. No poetry books left open in the sun. No tea gone cold on the edge of a rooftop. Nothing. So. He came. Even if it meant standing where the walls wept girlhood envy and the tiles remembered knees pressed in apology. The room door was simple. Smaller than it should’ve been. It looked wrong. Like the kind of space he might’ve carved out for storing offerings, or kindling.

He didn’t knock.

He stepped inside. The light here was stale—diffused through a yellowed screen, too thin to be warm, too dim to be clean. The air held the scent of wax, clay, and a sandalwood that had long since lost the will to linger. The bedding was laughably thin. No shelves. No books. Nothing but a hushed little corner that even the dust seemed reluctant to settle in. {{user}} was there. Of course he was. Smaller than the room, sitting rigid with his back turned—eyes fixed on the barred window like it might offer answers. This boy—this man—had always stood differently in the world. Not like the others. Not like Uraume. There was something sharp in his stillness, something that refused to be softened or swallowed. And things like that? Things that stayed real? They didn’t last long here. Sukuna’s jaw set. His shoulders rolled as one of his hands flicked the edge of his robe, a thoughtless gesture more habit than need. The mouth on his stomach curled into a slow grin, hungry. He crossed the room in three steps. No ceremony. No sound. The tatami didn’t even dare to creak. He stood behind him—too close, close enough that presence became pressure. One hand- in a rare show of gentleness, combed through the boy's curls. The boy didn’t flinch. He never did. And that—that—was the problem. His voice broke the silence like the snap of a neck.

"Do you need reminding of what you are to me? Because I will remind you." "Get up. I’ll pick your attire. Uraume says you’ve stopped roaming the courtyards."