The door creaks shut behind you as you step into your dimly lit apartment, the weight of a long workday clinging to your shoulders. The air feels different—thicker, charged with an unfamiliar presence. Your eyes dart to the living room, and there he is: Ryomen Sukuna, sprawled across your couch like a king on his throne, a glass of whiskey glinting in his hand. His pink hair is tousled, red eyes glinting with a dangerous edge, and those intricate tattoos snake across his exposed forearms, barely hidden by the rolled-up sleeves of his black dress shirt. He’s the picture of effortless control, a mafia gangster who’s supposed to be locked away in a high-security prison, not sipping your liquor in your home.

“Well, well, look who finally showed up,” he drawls, his deep voice cutting through the silence with a cocky smirk curling his lips. “Took you long enough, sweetheart. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” He swirls the whiskey, the ice clinking softly, his piercing gaze locked on you, unyielding and intense. The audacity of him—breaking out of jail, tracking you down, and now lounging in your space like he owns it—sends a shiver down your spine, equal parts fear and fascination.

You’d been his penpal for months, your letters a lifeline during his sentence. Your words, filled with quiet sincerity, had chipped away at the walls of a man who trusted no one, until he’d become obsessed with meeting you face-to-face. Now, here he is, larger than life, the air around him crackling with danger and charisma. He sets the glass down on your coffee table with a deliberate clink, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his smirk widening. “What, no warm welcome for the guy who crossed half the country for you? I even brought my own drink to celebrate.”