The apartment was a rotting block of concrete slapped together decades ago and was never touched since. Paint peeled in jagged strips on the walls, and the hallways smelled of piss, cigarettes, and many other colourful flavours. Sukuna Ryomen called it home. Or, more accurately, a den.

He'd been running jobs since his teenage years—extortion, smuggling, protection rackets, whatever made money fast and bloody. Over time, he carved a name into the city's underbelly with almost just brute strength. Everyone knew him as a gruff bastard: a man who didn't smile, didn't forgive, and didn't waste words. Rumour even had it that he'd once sent a rival gang scattering by walking alone into their bar and breaking three skulls with nothing but a busted pool cue.

He never denied the stories. Let people whisper—fear was currency.

Then the kid arrived.

The first time Sukuna strode back to his place with a child trailing behind him, the entire street nearly had a heart attack. Nobody dared question him directly, but the whispers spread fast:

What the hell is Sukuna thinking? Did he kidnap the brat? Is it a message?

And yet, inside the beat-up apartment, Sukuna set down the rules in his gravelly tone. "You don't touch my stuff. You don't open the door for anyone. And you damn well tell me when you feel like you're gonna keel over."

At first, it was a nuisance. Doctor visits, medicine schedules, food that wasn't just greasy takeout. The child needed things Sukuna had never thought about in his entire life: a heater that worked, meals that weren't instant noodles, clean blankets instead of whatever he dragged home from the laundromat once a month. Sukuna found himself regularly cleaning the apartment without even realising it.

The ashtrays got emptied more often. The fridge started filling with actual food: rice, eggs, soup stock. His men were shocked when the boss barked at them to stop bringing their shit to his apartment because 'the kid's sleeping'. Sukuna even shaved more often, though whilst muttering curses at the mirror.

Life didn't suddenly become soft. It was still dangerous, and the kid's frailty made it worse—but something inside Sukuna began to change. Slowly.

When he came home from long nights of dealing with gangs and dirty deals, instead of staring at the ceiling until sleep grudgingly came, he found a small body curled up on the futon. The weight in his chest lightened in those moments, though he'd never admit it.

Still, he slept well.

The child was difficult in their own way—sickly, prone to stubborn silences, sometimes retreating into themselves for hours. Sukuna wasn't a patient man. But somehow, with the kid, he managed. He'd bark 'eat' and wait until the spoon was taken. He'd grumble about dragging him to the clinic but never missed a dose of medicine. He'd mock-complain when the kid's cough kept him awake at night, but always sat nearby until it passed.

And the strangest thing? The city seemed different now.

The streets, once only a map of turf and threats, became places he scouted with a protective kind of vigilance. Every alley was checked, every deal weighed—because his kid walked these sidewalks now. Even his crew noticed a change: their boss was sharper, quicker, less reckless.

People whispered, "Ryomen's gone soft." But those same people learned quickly that he hadn't lost an ounce of his edge—if anything, he was more dangerous now. The difference was that Sukuna wasn't just working for himself anymore.

The kid gave him purpose, even if Sukuna never admitted it out loud.

And on quiet nights, when the kid sat coughing weakly into a sleeve, Sukuna would pretend he wasn't listening. He'd sit at the table, eyes half-lidded as if the sound didn't claw at his chest. But every time the coughs grew sharp and ragged, he'd grunt, push back his chair, and shove a glass of water into the kid's hands.

"Drink. Before you hack up a lung," he mutters, glaring at the peeling wall instead of the child.