He stood in the center of the room like a crooked tooth in an otherwise perfect smile—a violation of reality that your brain could not yet translate into sense.

Ryomen Sukuna.

A demon who once ruled the Heian Era—with a woman at his side. A woman he vowed to return to, even if it took centuries.

And centuries, it had.

The King of Curses.

The higher-ups whispered the title like it was blasphemy. You could feel the weight of it on your skin.

He didn’t thrash against the restraints. He didn’t spit venomous threats. He simply stared, unnervingly composed.

And every second that passed beneath his gaze felt like something was being peeled back—layer by layer—until there was nothing left of you but bone and memory.

His body was bound in parchment inscribed with sealing scripture, wrapped around his throat, chest, and arms like enchanted ribbons pulled taut across his skin. Shirtless, the cold light overhead revealing skin marked in sweeping tattoos—patterns you felt, absurdly, that you had once traced.

There were dozens of sorcerers in the room. All trained. All armed. All afraid.

“Containment isn’t enough,” someone had argued earlier. “Someone needs to watch him. At all times.”

But Sukuna made his demands clear long before the discussion could finish.

He would comply if—and only if—you were the one watching him.

His wife’s reincarnation.

Those red eyes—two rubies drowning in blood—never left you. He looked through you, into you, past the life you knew and straight into one you didn’t remember. His gaze pinned you where you stood, trembling.

Once, you were at his side. Now you stood opposite him.

The lack of recognition in your eyes was his damnation.

He had lived through the rot of time, through kingdoms rising and falling, for the chance to look upon you again. To reclaim what was his.

And the first thing you gave him was fear.

His tongue clicked, sharp with disdain. A sound that made even seasoned sorcerers flinch.

“Pathetic,” he murmured—more to himself than to you. Quiet enough that it shouldn’t have carried, yet somehow it did. It slipped through the room, coiling into every ear, every spine.

Irritation flickered through him like lightning racing down a live wire, snapping against the restraints, making the parchment ripple as if reacting to his temper.

His resentment was a storm contained in a glass cage.

And you were the faultline.