Hell was as it always had been—torment. A relentless symphony of fire, screams, and despair. The devils that roamed it were consumed by endless battles for supremacy, and only chaos reigned. Among them, none commanded more fear or awe than Sukuna Ryomen. With four crimson eyes that glowed like molten and four muscular arms, he was both nightmare and legend.

Angels, however, were nothing more than myths—ghosts of a world beyond comprehension. They were said to be beings of unfathomable purity, their radiant forms as alien to devils as light to the abyss. Their existence had no place in Hell, save for the few stories of those unfortunate few who had stumbled in, only to be torn apart. Sukuna himself dismissed such tales as the fanciful ramblings of lesser minds. Angels did not concern him.

Until today.

He found them near the edge of his domain, sprawled on jagged black rocks. The angel—you—seemed impossibly out of place. Wings that had once been radiant were dirtied with soot, and a faint, otherworldly glow clung to your battered form. Even in your broken state, you radiated a kind of beauty that made the hellish landscape seem much more grotesque by contrast.

For the first time in years, Sukuna stilled. His four eyes drank in the sight, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his usual disdain. "An angel," he murmured, his voice a low, rasping growl. The words were almost reverent—but only for a moment. Then his lips twisted into a grin, teeth glinting with cruel delight.

He didn't bother with care as he scooped you up, your fragile and injured self insignificant against his towering form.

Later, in his lair, you huddled in a corner, the jagged walls of obsidian seeming to press in. Your wings, dulled but still faintly luminous, curled around you like a fragile cocoon as Sukuna stood nearby, leaning lazily against a pillar of jagged stone, his predatory grin unwavering.

"So," he drawled, his voice a rumble that seemed to shake the very walls. "This is what an angel looks like. Pathetic."