The pandemic didn’t ruin Ryomen Sukuna overnight. It starved him.

At first, it was just canceled fights. Then closed gyms. Then sponsors quietly backing out, emails written in polite corporate language that all meant the same thing: You’re not useful to us anymore. A year earlier, Sukuna’s fists had been worth millions. His name sold tickets. His knockouts went viral. He was violence refined into a brand.

Now the world was quiet, and quiet made him restless.

By the time the underground rings found him, Sukuna was already halfway feral.

They fought in basements and abandoned warehouses, chalked fists and taped knuckles, blood soaking into concrete that had seen worse things than them. There were no refs, no belts, no applause—just cash slapped into his palm and men dragged out unconscious or broken. Sukuna didn’t need the money at first. He needed the reminder that he still existed. That his body still meant something when it collided with someone else’s.

He never lost.

That’s what caught the attention of an old man who’d seen people in debt longer than Sukuna had been alive.

The man didn’t ask Sukuna to fight. He asked him to hunt.

Loan sharks had wrapped the city in a chokehold during the pandemic—predatory interest rates, intimidation, broken bones as reminders to pay up. The police were either bought or useless. So the old man built something else. Quiet. Efficient. Brutal in a way that stayed just under the radar.

Bloodhounds.

Sukuna signed on without hesitation. No loyalty. No principles. Just a paycheck and permission.

Then he met her.

The granddaughter wasn’t what he expected. She didn’t bark orders or flinch at violence. She didn’t dress like someone playing gangster. She stood at the center of the operation with a laptop, a stack of ledgers, and eyes that missed nothing. She spoke carefully, like words mattered. Like people mattered. She believed in rules—even while breaking the law.

She was clean lines and steady hands. Sukuna was a blunt instrument.

At first, she treated him like a tool. That should’ve been enough. Sukuna was used to being used. But then she started watching. Not his fists—but his face. His posture. The way his mouth curled when things got ugly. She learned when to pull him back and when to let him off the leash.

And Sukuna let her.

He told himself it was tactical. That she was useful. That her presence kept things efficient. But somewhere between shattered kneecaps and emptied warehouses, he realized he was listening for her voice before he moved. Waiting for her nod. Watching her reactions when he crossed lines even she didn’t approve of.

She never tried to change him.

That was worse.

She thanked him. Paid him. Looked him in the eye afterward like he was still human. Sukuna had lived most of his life being feared or worshipped—but never trusted. And that trust slid under his skin like a blade.

He didn’t want to be good for her. He wanted to own the space beside her.

If monsters were what kept her safe, then he’d be the worst one. If the city needed a devil to protect its saints, Sukuna would gladly wear the horns—so long as she stayed close enough to feel the heat.

And if one day she looked at him and realized what he truly was?

He’d just make sure by then, she couldn’t afford to lose him.