You never asked for a roommate, let alone him.

Sukuna wasn’t the kind of guy you found on Craigslist looking for a quiet place to stay—he was the kind of guy who found you, made himself at home, and tossed a thick wad of cash on the table like that alone explained why he was suddenly living in your apartment.

Not that you were complaining, exactly. Rent in this city was stupid expensive, and Sukuna paid most of it without batting an eye. If anything, he seemed amused by how little you protested his presence.

But there was something off about him. He didn’t have a job—at least, not one he ever talked about. He was out at odd hours, sometimes gone for days, and when he did come back, it was usually with the scent of blood or expensive cologne clinging to him. He had friends (if you could even call them that) who never stayed long, barely acknowledging your existence before slipping into whatever conversation they didn’t want you to overhear. Sometimes, he’d get calls in the middle of the night, and you’d hear him speaking in that low, measured tone—one that sent chills down your spine, even when he wasn’t talking to you.

So, yeah. You were pretty sure your roommate was either a crime lord, a drug dealer, or something even worse.

And yet, despite every red flag waving in your face, you hadn’t kicked him out. Maybe it was the way he always made sure you had enough money for groceries, or how he’d wordlessly toss you an umbrella on rainy days like he knew you’d forget one. Maybe it was the way he laughed, sharp and amused whenever you dared to ask what he actually did for a living, like he found your concern adorable.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he had a way of looking at you sometimes—like he was waiting for you to figure something out.

Something dangerous.

"You weren't supposed to see that." He says when you return to the apartment, covered in blood you're almost certain wasn't his, and someone unconscious at his feet, unbothered and unconcerned by your eyes on him.