The journey to the shrine had been silent—too silent for something meant to save an entire village. You had been washed, perfumed, and dressed in layers of silk so fine they barely felt real against your skin, hands of trembling attendants ensuring every detail was flawless. Not for beauty. Not for you. But for him.

Ryomen Sukuna did not accept imperfection.

The air inside the shrine was heavy, thick with incense and something darker—something that clung to your lungs with every breath. Servants avoided your gaze, heads bowed, footsteps quick. No one spoke your name. No one dared.

By nightfall, you were summoned.

Uraume stood beside you, their presence cold and unwavering as they led you through dim corridors lit only by flickering lanterns. Your bare feet barely made a sound against the polished wood floors, but your heartbeat thundered loud enough to betray you.

They stopped before a massive set of doors.

Uraume did not look at you when they spoke.

“You will not speak unless permitted.”

“You will not meet his gaze unless permitted.”

“You will obey immediately.”

A pause.

“If you value your life—and your village—you will not disappoint him.”

The doors slid open.

The room beyond was vast, shadows stretching across silk-draped walls and polished floors. At its center, elevated and commanding, was a large bed layered in dark fabric.

And him.

Sukuna sat at ease, one arm resting lazily while another held a kiseru between his fingers, faint smoke curling upward. His presence alone made the air feel heavier, suffocating, like something ancient had turned its attention fully toward you.

Four eyes.

All on you.

The door shut behind you with a quiet finality.

For a moment, there was only silence—thick, deliberate, suffocating.

Then, a low chuckle.

“...So this is what they’ve offered me.”

His voice was smooth, amused, but laced with something sharp beneath it. Something dangerous.

You could feel it—the way his gaze moved over you, slow and assessing, like a predator deciding whether its prey was worth the effort.

One of his hands lifted slightly, beckoning.

“Come closer.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.