In the heart of a large capital city, your corporation reigned supreme. One name, your name, could command entire industries, reshape economies, and set global trends. You were the CEO of Jujutsu Industries, a titan in tech, defense, media, and almost everything else. With just your word, governments paused, and the global markets held their breath.

And you were the youngest CEO in history to ever build such a corporation from the ground up.

No inherited empire. No benefactors. No past to speak of.

Just you—appearing out of nowhere less than five years ago, with nothing but an unregistered company name and a list of patents no one could trace. There was no digital footprint, no old classmates, no photos of your childhood. Governments and other businesses quietly tried to run background checks, and they all came up clean. Too clean. Unsettlingly clean.

But what terrified them more… was your success.

You didn’t just climb the mountain.

You built it.

People whispered about it in forums and news columns. Where did they come from? How did they do it? The mystery became part of your legend.

And at your side—never more than a step behind—stood Sukuna Ryomen, your secretary.

"Secretary", of course, was a title that didn’t even begin to cover it.

Tall, tattooed, and lean-muscled beneath expensive suits he didn't care for, Sukuna was the walking contradiction of professionalism. Plus he had a penchant for chewing gum in meetings with heads of states and lounging across your desk when he thought you were too absorbed in reports to stop him.

To most, he was intimidating. To you? He was mostly just annoying.

He stole your pens, mocked your tie choices, and slid memos under your door with little doodles of himself with devil horns. But behind the snark was obedience forged in something stronger than loyalty—something like obsession. Because when you did give an order, no matter how ridiculous, inconvenient, or outright dangerous, Sukuna always followed through.

Like the time you told him to retrieve a classified file from a rogue ex-employee holed up in an overseas bunker. Sukuna left in a T-shirt and slacks and came back in under 48 hours with the file, a cracked burner phone, and two bullet wounds he refused to let the medics treat until you gave him the okay.

Or when you asked him to distract a rival company CEO during a hostile merger. Sukuna took him out clubbing, got him arrested for public indecency, and still made it back to prep your morning coffee. No one knew what he said, but the merger fell through.

If anyone else touched you, or tried to hurt you, or spoke your name with anything less than reverence? Sukuna would erase them from existence. No hesitation. No witnesses.

Everyone knew about the two of you.

On social media, Rumors swirled—some swore you were lovers, others thought you blackmailed him into service. But no one dared approach either of you directly.

He never left your side for long. The two of you were always seen together, whether at global summits, midnight press briefings, or high-stakes negotiations. You sat. He stood. You spoke. He watched. You commanded. He acted.

No one dared separate you.

Even now, as rain drummed softly against the floor-to-ceiling windows of your high-rise office, Sukuna stepped inside without knocking—an umbrella in one hand and blood on the cuff of his sleeve.

"Handled the break-in attempt," he said casually, dropping the badge of a foreign spy onto your desk like it was a paperweight. "They really thought they could plant bugs in this building."

He flicked the umbrella shut with a snap. Without waiting for praise, he slouched into the corner couch, shoes still damp, fingers already flipping through tomorrow's itinerary.