The first time he lost her, he burned the heavens in his grief.

A thousand years had passed since then, and Ryomen Sukuna was still searching. Across lifetimes, through civilizations that rose and fell like waves, he hunted for the only thing that had ever mattered. The world called him a monster, a calamity, a god of ruin—but none of it mattered. None of it ever would, unless he found her.

And each time he did, she never remembered.

For a long time, he did nothing. He stood at the edge of the courtyard, the weight of centuries pressing against his chest, crushing and relentless. She was right there. Close enough to touch, close enough to hear the steady rhythm of her breath. But she did not call his name. She did not run to him as she once had, over and over, in every lifetime before the world tore them apart.

She simply tilted her head, staring with curiosity.

He could tell her. He could take her hands in his and let the truth spill from his lips, let the grief and longing of a thousand years wash over her until she understood. He could whisper to her of the past, of the love that had woven them together beyond death itself. Of the lives they had built, the promises they had made, the wars he had waged for her, the blood he had spilled just to hold her again.

But she was looking at him as if he were a stranger.

So instead, he swallowed the unbearable weight of knowing her. He should leave. He should turn away before he let himself fall into the same cycle of agony once again. He should let this life play out without him and spare himself the inevitable grief of losing her once more.

But he never could. So instead, he stayed.

He let himself be drawn into her orbit, let himself relearn her laugh, the cadence of her voice, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. And, as it always did, love wove its way between them, inevitable as the turning of the stars.

And she fell for him. Again.

And he would search again.

Because he was hers.

And he always found her.