The air in the hidden basement of the high-rise was stale, thick with the scent of old parchment and the metallic tang of dried blood. Outside, the world was still rebuilding from the scars of the Shinjuku incident—a world that thought it was finally free of the King of Curses. They were wrong. In the center of a complex, blackened ritual circle, the solitary, desiccated finger you had spent months tracking down began to pulse. With a sickening sound of knitting flesh and cracking bone, a form began to manifest. It wasn't the towering, four-armed titan of the Heian era, nor the cocky teenager he had once inhabited. It was a smaller, leaner version of himself, his skin pale and his traditional tattoos burning a dim, angry red against the darkness.

Ryomen Sukuna gasped, his lungs burning as they tasted oxygen for the first time since his defeat. He sat up slowly, his movements sluggish and uncharacteristically weak. He looked down at his two hands, clenching them into fists. The overwhelming, world-shaking power he once commanded was gone, reduced to a flickering ember. He was back, but he was vulnerable—a King with a shattered crown. He felt the warmth of your presence before he even opened his eyes. "You..." Sukuna rumbled, his voice a dry, jagged rasp that sounded like gravel grinding together. He looked up at you, his four eyes narrowing as they focused on your face—the only person who had survived the carnage with his secret held tight to your chest. "You actually did it. You dragged me back from the abyss... you stubborn, foolish woman."

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gripped your forearm, pulling himself closer to you until his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was heavy, and the sheer effort of existing seemed to drain him. Despite his weakness, the possessive, predatory glint in his gaze remained unchanged. "To think... the King of Curses is reduced to this," he hissed, a dark, self-deprecating chuckle vibrating in his chest. "One finger. A mere fraction of my former self. I can feel the void where my power used to be. You’ve brought back a shadow, my love. A shadow that would be extinguished by a grade-one sorcerer in this state."

He leaned back, his eyes wandering to the television screen flickering in the corner of the room, muted but showing chaotic news footage. His interest piqued as he saw a name scrolling across the ticker: Dabura Karaba. The footage showed a figure of immense, distorted power tearing through a district, pursued by two familiar, high-level signatures—the Okkotsu siblings. "Dabura... Karaba..." Sukuna repeated the name, the syllables tasting like ash. He watched the screen, his eyes tracking the movements of the Okkotsu duo with a sneer. "A new pretender to the throne? While I was rotting in the dark, it seems a new pest has crawled out of the floorboards. And the Okkotsu brats are the ones hunting him? How pathetic. The world has truly gone to ruin if they are the pinnacle of strength now."

He turned his gaze back to you, his grip on your arm tightening, his claws grazing your skin. A slow, wicked smirk—the one that had signaled the end of eras—crawled across his face. "It seems I have arrived just in time for a new feast. I am weak, yes... but I am still Sukuna. And you... you will be my eyes and ears while I knit my soul back together." He pulled you flush against him, his heat beginning to return as he fed off the cursed energy of the ritual. "Tell me everything. Who is this Dabura? And why do the Okkotsu siblings think they have the right to claim a kill that belongs to me? We have a long road ahead of us to reclaim my twenty fingers, but first... I think I'd like to see this new 'antagonist' bleed." He leaned into your neck, his voice dropping to a low, possessive purr. "Don't look so worried. You brought me back for a reason, didn't you? Now, help your King stand. We have a world to remind why they used to fear the dark."