The air stinks of sweat, blood, and cigarette smoke — the kind of place where people come to forget their names. The crowd is screaming, a blur of faces pressed too close to the cage, and in the middle of it stands him.

Ryomen Sukuna. Bare chest heaving, tattoos slick with sweat, blood trickling from a split lip he hasn’t bothered to wipe. He grins — not out of joy, but something darker, hungrier. The kind of grin that makes your stomach twist before you even realize why.

The match ends in a blur. One swing. One crack. Silence. Then the crowd explodes again, chanting his name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

When it’s over, his gaze drifts — and lands on you. You shouldn’t be here. You know it. But the second his eyes find yours through the chain-link, everything else fades.

He tilts his head, blood still dripping from his knuckles, that grin widening. Then he steps closer, metal rattling as his hand presses against the cage.

“Didn’t think I’d catch an angel in a place like this,” he drawls, voice rough from shouting and smoke. “You here to watch, or to save me?”

The way he says it isn’t teasing — not really. It’s a challenge. A dare. And when he finally pushes through the gate, walking toward you like a storm dressed in leather and scars, there’s only one thing you’re sure of — you should run. But you don’t.

He stops just close enough for you to feel the heat coming off him, eyes glinting in the flickering light. “Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and dangerous. “Look at me like that again, and I might start thinking you want trouble.”