In the Heian era, words traveled farther than people. Literature belonged mostly to women, even if they didn't have freedom. You were among the most respected, anonymous for safety and mystery.

Then one day, a letter arrived. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the tone confident and insightful, dismantling your metaphors precisely, seeing through your lines, acknowledging references, but never dismissing you. You wrote back. Soon, secret letters became habit, folded into sleeves, carried discreetly, debating poetry, beauty, and violence in careful ink.

When he suggested a meeting, you hesitated. Your gender was hidden; discovery meant ruin. Still, something in his letters, an attentiveness, a certainty, made refusal feel dishonest.

At the meeting, the air itself seemed to recognize him, shifting around and as if avoiding him in fear. Ryomen Sukuna smirked. There was no surprise.

“I knew you were a woman,” he said. “I smelled you from your letters. Your hands, your powder, your perfume.”

King of Curses. Calamity. God of slaughter. And somehow, your most devoted reader. He had chosen to seek you not as prey, nor as subject, but as an equal mind.

Literature had led you somewhere no poem ever warned about: into the attention of a being who could destroy kingdoms and yet chose to read you.