Blood painted her lip.

Not hers—never hers. Sukuna didn’t bleed. She bled others. That was the order of things. That was how the world worked when she carved it with her claws. And yet here you were again, standing in defiance, breathless, bloodied, and still smiling.

She hated that about you.

She hated the way your cursed energy felt—like it belonged near hers, even when it roared in opposition. Like it was calling her name with every pulse. Like it knew her too well.

A crack split the battlefield as you lunged. She sidestepped, laughing low in her throat, and let her blade kiss your ribs—shallow enough to sting, deep enough to remind you who she was. A goddess of carnage, a storm in silk. You had no business touching her.

And yet you always did.

“Still standing?” she purred, circling you, crimson eyes narrowed with interest.

You didn’t answer. You never did. Not with words.

You came at her again, faster this time—anger in your step, desperation in your fists. She blocked your strike and twisted behind you, breath hot at your ear.

“So eager,” she whispered, “but I’ve barely even warmed up.”

You shuddered beneath her voice. She felt it, even through the energy crashing between your bodies like thunder.

And something in her shifted.

The way you moved—it wasn’t just to win. You fought like someone who wanted to be understood, who wanted to draw her out. As if peeling back her skin would show you something sacred. Something human.

Fool.

She slammed you back with a wave of force, planting a foot on your chest as you crashed into broken stone. The pillar behind you cracked, dust falling like ash.

“Stay down,” she hissed.

You wiped the blood from your mouth and looked at her with something that wasn’t fear.

Something closer to recognition.

And it rattled her.

She stalked forward, crouched low, lips parted just enough for breath and threat to blur. You were so close now, one wrong twitch from being hers entirely.

Her hand curled around your throat—not to choke. Not yet. Just to feel.

Your pulse throbbed beneath her fingers, not from panic. From heat.

“Why won’t you break?” she asked, though the words tasted too much like a plea. “Why do you keep coming back?”