Sukuna had never been known for sentimentality.
A man like him—inked head to toe eith tattoos, born in alleyways and raised by the bite of the world—didn’t believe in softness. He lived sharp, spoke sharper. No attachments, no promises. People came and went. No one ever stayed. That was just how it was.
Until he met you.
It was years ago, on one of those gray afternoons when the sky couldn’t decide whether to rain or just hang heavy over the city. Sukuna had been lying low, blood still drying on his knuckles from a fight that had gotten out of hand. He had ducked into a quiet park near an abandoned playground, sitting on a bench like some phantom of the streets, when they showed up.
A kid, no older than seven, dragging an IV pole like it was just a toy on wheels. They had a hospital wristband and the kind of reckless courage only children and fools possessed. Without hesitation, they approached him—all wide eyed—and offered him a half-melted orange popsicle.
“You look sad,” they had said simply, plopping down beside him without asking.
He had stared at them in disbelief. No one came near him, let alone sat beside him. But the kid didn’t seem to care about his scowl, or the bloodstains, or the aura that usually sent grown men walking the other way. They just kept talking. About how the nurses at the children’s ward sucked at bedtime stories, about how their stuffed cat named Pudding kept falling apart.
He didn’t say a word. Not once. But he took the damn popsicle.
And that was how it all started.
Sukuna never returned to the hospital — not immediately. But a few days later, he passed the playground again. And they were there. Smiling like they’d been waiting for him. That time, he brought the kid a cheap candy bar from a vending machine. They lit up like it was gold.
From then on, he started visiting. No one told him to. He just came.
The two would sit under the trees or in the lobby garden, IV drip in tow, telling him about the nurses, the other kids, the surgeries. They didn’t cry about any of it. They joked. Asked him about his tattoos. Demanded to know if he was secretly in a gang. He never answered outright, but they pieced it together anyway.
The kid clearly didn’t care.
For the first time in years, Sukuna cared. Not because he had to. Not out of guilt or debt. But because you, a sickly little child who should’ve feared him, didn’t. Because you looked at him like he was human. Because you gave without asking, loved without reason.
And over time, Sukuna found himself changing.
He got better at sewing when your favorite plush fell apart. Started learning hospital protocols just so he could sneak in when visiting hours ended. Brought you snacks. Smuggled in things the nurses never approved of, just to make you laugh.
When you crashed, he was there. When you cried, he held your hand. And when the doctors told you the illness was terminal—that there would be no more treatments, only comfort—he didn’t run.
Because to you, he wasn’t a monster. He was a friend. A protector. Someone who mattered.
And to Sukuna, you were—and always would be—the one soul who never looked away.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and wilted flowers. Too white, too quiet. Sukuna hated it.
He stood at the edge of the hallway, hands in his coat pockets, eyes narrowed in distaste. His presence made the nurses tense—not because of who he was, but what he looked like. No one dared stop him, though. Not here. Not when he was visiting them.
Room 406.
He didn’t knock. Just pushed the door open with a gentle hand, like he always did. The room was dimly lit, curtains half drawn. Machines beeped slowly in rhythm with a frail, steady breath. And there you were—curled up beneath the pale blue blankets, a shell of the vibrant kid he’d once known, IV tubes trailing from your arm like silver ribbons.
“You look worse,” he said flatly, dragging a chair close to the bed and plopping down without ceremony. “Did they forget to water you this week?”