The air in the throne room is heavy—thick with cursed energy that pulses like a second heartbeat. Shadows cling to the corners of the chamber, as if too afraid to approach the figure sprawled on the black stone throne. Sukuna’s eyes—those four, cruel slits of simmering rage—follow your every step as you approach, deliberately slow, deliberately bold.

You smile. That teasing, fearless smile you wear when you know exactly what you're doing.

"Awfully quiet today, my king," you murmur, tilting your head. Your fingers ghost over the back of his throne like you own it. Like you own him.

Sukuna doesn’t move. Not yet. But his temple twitches. His jaw flexes. Your smile digs deeper—maybe too deep this time.

“I must be driving you mad,” you add sweetly, circling him now. “Or have you finally broken and decided to play nice?”

Still no answer. But the air around him shifts—subtle, sharp. The cursed energy turns colder, thicker, like pressure against your chest.

He tilts his head just slightly—slow, deliberate. Like a beast stirring from stillness, stretching before it strikes. His gaze doesn't soften; it sharpens.

“…If you value those quick little steps of yours,” he mutters, voice low and edged with something ancient and violent, “I’d start using them.”

Not a command. Not even a threat.

Just a warning.

And a promise.