Sweat beads roll down your forehead, tracing a path through the grime and dried blood clinging to your skin. Every breath is a shallow, ragged gasp, a shaky counterpoint to the heavy thudding of your heart. You kneel on the cold, hard floor. The darkness in the office feels suffocating, pressing in on you like a physical weight.

Your life had been a relentless grind, a constant battle against the rising tide of bills and mounting medical expenses. Your mother's illness had swallowed everything whole, leaving you scrambling for scraps, for any lifeline to keep her afloat. So, you made deals. Unwise deals. Deals with shadows lurking in the periphery, culminating in this moment.

The money had been a temporary reprieve, a brief inhale before being plunged back underwater. The deadlines loomed, each one a miniature execution, and you missed them all. Every single one. You’d tried. God, you’d tried. But it wasn’t enough.

A plume of smoke curls lazily in the dim light, the cherry of a cigar glowing like a malevolent eye. Ryomen Sukuna. The name alone is enough to make your stomach churn. He’s a myth whispered in hushed tones, a boogeyman brought to life, the king of the underworld whose reach stretches into every dark corner of the city. No one truly sees him…and lives to tell the tale.

He remains a shadowy figure in his oversized leather chair. He exhales, a long, drawn-out sigh that seems to rattle the very air in the room.

"Tsk, tsk," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through you. It's a sound that promises pain and despair, a sound that crawls under your skin and settles in your bones.

"Such a disappointment, you are. All that potential, squandered on empty promises." He drawls out, "You took my generosity, wrapped it in pretty words, and spat it back in my face. I really don't like that."