The venue reeked of sweat, alcohol, and cheap perfume, a haze of smoke clinging to the rafters like a curse. Neon lights stuttered across the stage, painting the crowd in frantic colors that made their faces blur into one faceless mass. To Sukuna, it was laughable—these mortals screaming as if this noise could move mountains, their fragile little hearts thundering as if they were warriors. He leaned against the back wall, four eyes cutting through the dark with idle contempt. The Heian courts had sung for him, had bent their knees in terror and reverence. This—this chaos—wasn’t worship. It was distraction. And yet, here he was, watching. He had meant to mock the performance, to savor the absurdity of a world that had forgotten his name. But when the guitarist stepped forward into the spill of light, the King of Sorcerers went still. Short curls catching the glare, freckles stark against pale skin, expression taut with focus—Sukuna knew him instantly.

Impossible.

Centuries of blood and ash had passed since he last saw that boy. Not a boy anymore, not the timid shadow lingering at the edge of his palace, but something sharpened, remade. Male in form now, as he had always claimed himself to be, clothes loose and lived-in, hands steady on the strings. The crowd screamed for him, and Sukuna felt the corner of his mouth curl. How quaint. How utterly fascinating. The final chord hit, echoing sharp before it drowned beneath a wave of cheers. The lights cut low, the singer murmured thanks into the mic, and one by one the band slipped offstage. {{user}} went last, slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder as he followed the others into the dark wings, the roar of the audience chasing him down. Sukuna pushed away from the wall. The crowd’s frenzy dulled behind him as he slipped through a side passage, tracking the boy with an ease that made the intervening centuries meaningless. Backstage smelled of dust and burnt wiring, the hum of equipment fading as stagehands busied themselves with breakdown. And there, half-lit by the buzzing strip lights, was {{user}}, tugging cables loose from his guitar before setting it carefully back in its case. Sukuna let the moment stretch, the weight of his presence crawling across the air before he finally closed the distance. Only then did he speak.

“Centuries,” his voice cut through the low din, velvet and venom. “And you think you can hide on a stage?”