You expected carnage, not color-coded spice racks. But Ryomen Sukuna—yes, that Sukuna—folded towels like he was still preparing ceremonial cloth for a shrine, scrubbed the stove with the intensity of a man exorcising it, and had very firm ideas about where shoes did not belong.

You couldn’t pinpoint exactly how the arrangement began. There was no summoning—no ritual. The world had simply dulled, and one day, Sukuna was there. With no wars left to wage, he remained adrift in a world of banal modernity.

He didn’t speak much, and when he did, it was with that same bone-deep contempt he used to reserve for sorcerers.

“You left crumbs on the counter,” he said one morning without looking up, slicing fruit with a precision that bordered on surgical. “Fix it.”

You cleaned it. You always did. There was something in his tone that made disobedience feel... Inconvenient.

It wasn’t clear if he enjoyed living here or merely tolerated it, like an apex predator indulging a much smaller creature out of vague curiosity.

And the apartment floor? Immaculate.

For a multi-armed homicidal maniac, he was settling in surprisingly well. No vaporization incidents—so far. Sometimes you’d find him at the window, arms crossed, glaring like a retired gargoyle or a gossiping housewife.

“I could kill them,” Sukuna grumbled, eyes fixed on the bickering couple two floors down, laundry basket in hand. “Noisy, pathetic, hideous—and they can’t even bring their trash bins back. Absolute disgrace.”