The room was quiet in the way only old places could be—thick, settled, layered with centuries of restraint. Tatami mats stretched wall to wall, their woven scent warmed by the late sun slipping in through partially open shōji. Shadows bled slowly across the floor, long and amber, catching on carved beams and the low table pushed aside for the evening.

Sukuna sat with practiced ease on a zabuton, posture loose but unmistakably dominant, as though the space itself had learned to accommodate him. A dark haori was draped over his shoulders, left open and careless, the fabric cut generously to allow for his four arms without strain. Beneath it, his torso was bare, curse markings stark against skin warmed by the dying light. One of his hands held a thin slip of paper—a haiku, freshly written, the ink still faintly raised.

He read it with indifference. The rhythm was adequate. The imagery passable. A brow lifted, just slightly, betraying the quiet dissection happening behind his eyes—the syllable count uneven, the metaphor indulgent, the sentiment bordering on self-importance. It was not worth his time. He continued reading anyway.

At his side lay Itadori Yuji.

Not on the bare floor, but on the tatami itself, cushioned further by a folded futon pad left out of habit rather than planning. The boy was half-turned toward him, one arm slack across his own stomach, breathing deep and even. His head rested in Sukuna’s lap without ceremony, hair fanned messily against the haori’s edge. One of Sukuna’s larger hands lay on Yuji’s head, fingers spread, heavy and unmoving—not protective, not gentle, simply there, as if it had always belonged.

A blanket was draped over Yuji, tucked clumsily around his shoulders and legs. It did little to hide how completely at ease he was, face slack with sleep, trust worn openly even in unconsciousness. The rise and fall of his breathing was steady, unbothered by the presence of something that had once erased cities.

The sun dipped lower. Light thinned, gold turning to ember, then to quiet dusk. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, catching for a moment before disappearing again. The estate felt lived in now—warmed by use, softened by occupation—an unthinkable thing for a place claimed by the King of Curses.