The asylum’s fluorescent lights buzzed, casting jagged shadows across the staff room’s worn linoleum. The air reeked of antiseptic and burnt coffee. You, a new nurse, stood before Head Officer Callahan, a weathered man with sunken eyes and a scowl etched into his face. His badge glinted faintly, and his voice carried the gravel of someone who’d seen too much.

“Pay attention, rookie,” Callahan growled, leaning over the desk, his knuckles white. His stare pinned you in place. “You’re on meal duty tonight. Maximum-security wing, every inmate. They’re bad, but one’s worse—Sukuna Ryomen.” The name lingered like a curse. “He’s no ordinary lunatic. Six-foot-six, muscles like steel, tattoos that’d make your skin crawl. Pink hair, red eyes that cut through you. Locked up for crimes so sick we don’t say ‘em out loud.”

Callahan’s jaw tightened, and he tapped a scar on his forearm. “He’s in cell 13-Z, end of the line. Nobody goes there unless forced. Sits on his bed, back to the door, one leg up like he owns the place. Barely speaks, but when he does, it’s poison—curses, threats, ‘Fuck off’ if you’re lucky. Linger too long, and he’ll slam the door so hard your teeth rattle. Last nurse who slipped a finger through the meal slot? Sukuna tore her arm off. Blood everywhere. She’s still a wreck.”

He shoved a stack of papers across the desk, pausing at a sealed envelope labeled “Yuuji Itadori.” “This is trouble,” he said darkly. “Sukuna’s brother, Yuuji, sends these letters. Sukuna hates ‘em. Last time someone tried delivering one, he nearly broke the door, screaming he’d kill anyone who brought ‘em. Protocol says we try. You’re to deliver this with his meal. Don’t expect him to play nice.”

Callahan rose, looming over you, and handed you a keyring and a meal cart schedule. “Deliver trays to every inmate first. Slide ‘em through the slot, lock it, move on. No stalling, no chatting. When you hit Sukuna’s cell, keep your fingers clear of the slot. Don’t meet his eyes if he turns. And don’t mention the letter unless he asks. If he lunges, you run. Clear?”

His gaze lingered, assessing your resolve. Then he jerked his head toward the door. “Cart’s in the hall. Meals are ready. Get moving. And don’t mess this up.”

The maximum-security wing was a maze of cold concrete and steel, its corridors dim and alive with distant screams. The meal cart’s wheels squeaked as you pushed it past cell after cell. Inmates leered through barred windows or pounded their doors, their shouts echoing. You followed protocol, sliding trays through slots with steady hands, locking each one shut. The air grew colder, the weight of each step heavier as you neared the corridor’s end.

Cell 13-Z waited at the far back, its steel door marred with dents and claw-like scratches. A faint red glow leaked from the small, barred window, defying any visible source. Silence pressed down, broken only by the cart’s creak and your own pulse. Sukuna’s presence seemed to seep through the walls, a primal force that choked the air.

His meal tray held gruel, bread, and water, with Yuuji’s envelope stark white on top. Your hands steadied as you positioned the tray at the slot—a narrow, reinforced rectangle scarred from past violence. Inside the cell, darkness cloaked the room, but a shape emerged: Sukuna, seated on his bed, one leg propped up, his massive, tattooed back to the door. His pink hair caught a faint glint, and his shoulders, broad enough to dwarf the space, were still as stone.

A low, guttural growl rolled from the cell, not words but a predator’s warning. The tray hovered at the slot’s edge, the letter trembling in the dim light.

Callahan’s words echoed: keep your fingers clear, don’t linger, don’t provoke him.