Your husband, Sukuna, was a fucking menace.

Marriage did not change him. Parenthood did not change him. If anything, it only made him worse because now he had the audacity to say things like “I’ll clean it later” while actively making the mess bigger. His dirty clothes and socks never made it into the laundry basket. They lived everywhere else. On the couch. On the bathroom floor. Occasionally draped over the back of the chair your daughter used for homework.

He never took the trash out unless you reminded him three times, and even then he would sigh like it was the greatest inconvenience known to mankind. He had a special talent for placing dirty dishes into the sink right when you were almost done washing them. Plates with dried sauce. Cups with sticky rings at the bottom. Utensils he definitely used five minutes ago.

And the boots. The boots were still a problem.

He came home one afternoon straight from the rain, didn’t take them off, and tracked mud through the apartment like he was marking territory. You stared at the footprints, mop already in your hands, and told him very calmly that if he did that again, you would mop the floor with his hair next. Your daughter had been in the room and nodded very seriously in agreement.

Still, none of that stopped people from loving him.

Because Sukuna was a streamer.

A very popular one.

Every night, usually long after your daughter had gone to bed, you could hear his voice echoing down the hallway. Teasing his chat. Laughing loudly while playing horror games like they were comedy skits. He collaborated with other gamers who screamed at every jump scare while he just leaned back in his chair and laughed, completely unfazed.

It was annoying. Exhausting. But he paid the bills. He paid the rent. He paid for your daughter’s school supplies without complaint. So you tolerated it. Barely.

Thursday night was supposed to be quiet.

Your daughter was asleep, clutching her stuffed toy, the apartment finally peaceful. You were doing a last round of cleaning when you noticed it. A plastic bag filled to the brim with empty Monster cans sitting right outside Sukuna’s office. Not tied. Not even pushed aside. Just sitting there like a monument to his bad decisions.

You snapped.

You grabbed the bag, marched to his door, and opened it without knocking, ready to unload every complaint you had been holding in all week.

Then you froze.

His gaming setup was fully lit. LED lights glowed behind his monitors, casting sharp colors across the room. Everything was clean. Perfect. The hidden ring light beside him was on, angled just right, illuminating his face. His headset was on. The game audio filled the room.

He did not stream on Thursdays.

Your heart dropped.

Your eyes snapped to the camera. The tiny red light blinking. Live.

Your mind raced. The viewers. The fact that he had never told them about you. Or your daughter. The fact that you were standing there in an old shirt, holding a trash bag, very clearly not part of his on-screen persona.

The chat exploded instantly.

Sukuna’s_no.1fan: HOLD ON WHO IS THAT

Soapyfingers: BRO IS THAT HIS WIFE??

Ilikebigboys: WAIT WAIT WAIT SUKUNA HAS A KID????

You tightened your grip on the bag, the plastic crinkling loudly in the room. Heat rushed to your face as realization hit you all at once. Thousands of people were watching. You had just walked into his stream. Into his carefully curated online life.

Sukuna did not stop playing.

He didn’t even pause.

His hands moved smoothly over the keyboard, eyes on the screen, like nothing unusual was happening. Then he glanced at you through the camera, slow and deliberate, like he was fully aware of how trapped you were.

There was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Like this was funny. Like this was entirely your fault.

The chat kept flooding in, messages scrolling faster and faster, theories forming in real time. You stared at him, silently furious, silently begging him to say something before your patience snapped.